t, and
now he is only waiting to accomplish his greatest project--the
Trans-Greenland railway. When that is done, he will hand over the
Systeme to his own people. That is the act of a great man."

"Ah, yes," I said.

"Well," Callan began again, but suddenly paused. "By-the-bye, this must
go no farther," he said, anxiously, "I will let you have full
particulars when the time is ripe."

"My dear Callan," I said, touchily, "I can hold my tongue."

He went off at tangent.

"I don't want you to take my word--I haven't seen it yet. But I feel
assured about it myself. The most distinguished people have spoken to me
in its favour. The celebrated traveller, Aston, spoke of it with tears
in his eyes. He was the first governor-general, you know. Of course I
should not take any interest in it, if I were not satisfied as to that.
It is percisely because I feel that the thing is one of the finest
monuments of a grand century that I am going to lend it the weight of my
pen."

"I quite understand," I assured him; then, solicitously, "I hope they
don't expect you to do it for nothing."

"Oh, dear, no," Callan answered.

"Ah, well, I wish you luck," I said. "They couldn't have got a better
man to win over the National conscience. I suppose it comes to that."

Callan nodded.

"I fancy I have the ear of the public," he said. He seemed to get
satisfaction from the thought.

The train entered Folkestone Harbour. The smell of the sea and the easy
send of the boat put a little heart into me, but my spirits were on the
down grade. Callan was a trying companion. The sight of him stirred
uneasy emotions, the sound of his voice jarred.

"Are you coming to the Grand?" he said, as we passed St. Denis.

"My God, no," I answered, hotly, "I'm going across the river."

"Ah," he murmured, "the Quartier Latin. I wish I could come with you.
But I've my reputation to think of. You'd be surprised how people get to
hear of my movements. Besides, I'm a family man."

I was agitatedly silent. The train steamed into the glare of the
electric lights, and, getting into a fiacre, I breathed again. I seemed
to be at the entrance of a new life, a better sort of paradise, during
that drive across the night city. In London one is always a passenger,
in Paris one has reached a goal. The crowds on the pavements, under the
plane-trees, in the black shadows, in the white glare of the open
spaces, are at leisure--they go nowhere, seek nothing beyond.

We