r regard.
I believed that it was an idiosyncrasy of this wolf to look upon my
sheepfold as sacred from his depredations. I was ashamed of any doubts
that crossed my mind as to his loyalty, and did not hesitate to thrust
my lamb between his jaws. And while he was giving the lie direct to my
faith, I, poor fool, in my despair was seeking madly for his aid in the
deliverance of my darling from the power of the dog.

I have felt I owe Hamdi Effendi an apology; for it is well that, in the
midst of this buffoon tragedy I find myself playing, I should observe
occasionally the decencies of conduct. But, on the other hand, was he
not amply repaid for moral injury by the pure joy he must have felt
while torturing me with his banter? For all the deeper suffering, I
am conscious of writhing under lacerated vanity when I think of that
grotesque and humiliating blunder in the Hotel Metropole.

November 2d.

I have received news of the death of old Simon McQuhatty. In my
few lucid moments of late I had been thinking of seeking his kindly
presence. Now Gossip Death has taken him out across the moor. Now, dear
old pagan, he is

"Rolled round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks and stones and trees."

November 3d.

Antoinette came up this morning with a large cardboard box addressed to
Carlotta. The messenger who brought it was waiting downstairs.

"I came to Monsieur to know whether I should send it back," said
Antoinette, on the verge of tears.

"No," said I, "leave it here."

From the furrier's label, I saw that the box contained some furs I had
ordered for Carlotta a fortnight ago--she shivered so, poor child, in
this wintry climate.

"But, Monsieur," began Antoinette, "the poor angel--"

"May want it in heaven," said I.

The good woman stared.

"We'll be like the ancient Egyptians, Antoinette," I explained, "who
placed food and wine and raiment and costly offerings in the tombs of
the departed, so that their shades could come and enjoy them for all
eternity. We'll have to make believe, Antoinette, that this is a
tomb, for one can't rear a pyramid in London, though it is a desert
sufficiently vast; and the little second floor room is the inner
sanctuary where the body lies in silence embalmed with sweet spices and
swathed in endless bands of linen."

"But Mademoiselle is not dead?" cried Antoinette, with a shiver. "How
can Monsieur talk of such things? It makes me fear, the way Monsi