yes, and she felt as though she would never see the child
again.

"Why are you crying?" asked her husband, "when you know he will be
back again within a month."

She stammered out: "I don't know, I cry because I am hurt."

When they had landed, Beausire at once took leave of them to go to
breakfast with a friend. Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosemilly,
and Roland said to his wife:

"A very fine fellow, all the same, is our Jean."

"Yes," replied the mother.

And her mind being too much bewildered to think of what she was
saying, she went on:

"I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. Rosemilly."

The worthy man was astounded.

"Heh? What? He is to marry Mme. Rosemilly?"

"Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it this very day."

"Bless me. And has this engagement been long in the wind?"

"Oh, no, only a very few days. Jean wished to make sure that she would
accept him before consulting you."

Roland rubbed his hands.

"Very good. Very good. It is capital. I entirely approve."

As they were about to turn off from the quay down the Boulevard
Francois 1er, his wife once more looked back to cast a last look at
the high seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of gray smoke,
so far away, so faint that it looked like a film of haze.

DREAMS

It was after a dinner of friends, of old friends. There were five of
them, a writer, a doctor, and three rich bachelors without any
profession.

They had talked about everything, and a feeling of lassitude came on,
that feeling of lassitude which precedes and leads to the departure of
guests after festive gatherings. One of those present, who had for the
last five minutes been gazing silently at the surging boulevard
starred with gas-lamps, and rattling with vehicles, said suddenly:

"When you've nothing to do from morning till night, the days are
long."

"And the nights, too," assented the guest who sat next to him. "I
sleep very little; pleasures fatigue me; conversation is monotonous.
Never do I come across a new idea, and I feel, before talking to
anyone, a violent longing to say nothing and listen to nothing. I
don't know what to do with my evenings."

And the third idler remarked:

"I would pay a great deal for anything that would enable me to pass
merely two pleasant hours every day."

Then the writer, who had just thrown his overcoat across his arm,
turned round to them and said:

"The man who could discover a new vice, and introd