'Power,' watching his hands, conceived the idea
of giving him two balls of string, one blue, the other buff, and all
that afternoon he stayed up a single tree, and came down with one of his
rare sweet smiles and a little net, half blue, half buff, with a handle
covered with a twist of Turkey-red twill--such a thing as one scoops up
shrimps with. He was paid for it, and his eyes sparkled. You see, he had
no money--the '_poilu_' seldom has; and money meant drink, and tobacco
in his cheek. They gave him more string, and for the next few days it
rained little nets, beautifully if simply made. They thought that his
salvation was in sight. It takes an eye to tell salvation from
damnation, sometimes.... In any case, he no longer roamed from tree to
tree, but sat across a single branch, netting. The 'Powers' began to
speak of him as 'rather a dear,' for it is characteristic of human
nature to take interest only in that which by some sign of progress
makes you feel that you are doing good.

Next Sunday a distinguished doctor came, and, when he had been fed, some
one conceived the notion of interesting him, too, in Flotsam. A learned,
kindly, influential man--well-fed--something might come of it, even that
'_reforme_,' that sending home, which all agreed was what poor Roche
needed, to restore his brain. He was brought in, therefore, amongst the
chattering party, and stood, dark, shy, his head down, like the man in
Millet's 'Angelus,' his hands folded on his cap, in front of his
unspeakably buttoned blue baggy trousers, as though in attitude of
prayer to the doctor, who, uniformed and grey-bearded, like an old
somnolent goat, beamed on him through spectacles with a sort of shrewd
benevolence. The catechism began. So he had something to ask, had he? A
swift, shy lift of the eyes: 'Yes.' 'What then?' 'To go home.' 'To go
home? What for? To get married?' A swift, shy smile. 'Fair or dark?' No
answer, only a shift of hands on his cap. 'What! Was there no one--no
ladies at home?' '_Ce n'est pas ca qui manque!_' At the laughter
greeting that dim flicker of wit the uplifted face was cast down again.
That lonely, lost figure must suddenly have struck the doctor, for his
catechism became a long, embarrassed scrutiny; and with an: '_Eh bien!
mon vieux, nous verrons!_' ended. Nothing came of it, of course. '_Cas
de reforme?_' Oh, certainly, if it had depended on the learned, kindly
doctor. But the system--and all its doors to be unlocked! Wh