mother."

Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton. "Tell him," he gasped--"I

can't speak this language, though I understand a little; I never had any

proper education--tell him I'm going to punch his head."

"For God's sake, do nothing of the sort!" I cried. "They don't

understand that sort of thing here." And I tried to bundle him out.

"Tell him first what we think of him," he objected. "Let me tell him

what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American"

"Leave that to me," said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il a?"[1] inquired the student.

[1] "What's the matter with him?"

"Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regarde votre croute,"[2]

said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels.

[2] "The gentleman is sick at his stomach from having looked too long at

your daub."

"What did you say to him?" he asked.

"The only thing that he could feel," was my reply.

After this scene, the freedom with which I had ejected my new

acquaintance, and the precipitation with which I had followed him, the

least I could do was to propose luncheon. I have forgot the name of the

place to which I led him, nothing loath; it was on the far side of the

Luxembourg at least, with a garden behind, where we were speedily set

face to face at table, and began to dig into each other's history

and character, like terriers after rabbits, according to the approved

fashion of youth.

Pinkerton's parents were from the old country; there too, I incidentally

gathered, he had himself been born, though it was a circumstance he

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