d'ici?
Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde,
Et que le monde
N'est que souci?"

It is called "La Chanson de Barberine," and I never hear it but I
think of that sweet little white virginal _point d'interrogation_,
and Barty going away to France.)

Then he thanked Mrs. Gibson and said pretty things, and finally called
Mr. Gibson dreadful French fancy-names: "Cascameche--moutardier du pape,
tromblon-bolivard, vieux coquelicot"; to each of which the delighted Mr.
G. answered:

"Voos ayt oon oter--voos ayt oon oter!"

And then Barty whisked himself away in a silver cloud of glory. A
good exit!

Outside was a hansom waiting, with a carpet-bag on the top, and we
got into it and drove up to Hampstead Heath, to some little inn
called the Bull and Bush, near North-end.

Barty lit his pipe, and said:

"What capital people! Hanged if they're not the nicest people I ever
met!"

"Yes," said I.

And that's all that was said during that long drive.

At North-end we found two or three other hansoms, and Pepys and
Ticklets and the little Hebrew tenor art student whose name I've
forgotten, and several others.

We had another supper, and made a night of it. There was a piano in
a small room opening on to a kind of little terrace, with geraniums,
over a bow-window. We had music and singing of all sorts. Even _I_
sang--"The Standard-bearer"--and rather well. My sister had coached
me; but I did not obtain an encore.

The next day dawned, and Barty had a wash and changed his clothes,
and we walked all over Hampstead Heath, and saw London lying in a
dun mist, with the dome and gilded cross of St. Paul's rising into
the pale blue dawn; and I thought what a beastly place London would
be without Barty--but that Leah was there still, safe and sound
asleep in Tavistock Square!

Then back to the inn for breakfast. Barty, as usual, fresh as paint.
Happy Barty, off to Paris!

And then we all drove down to London Bridge to see him safe into the
Boulogne steamer. All his luggage was on board. His late
soldier-servant was there--a splendid fellow, chosen for his length
and breadth as well as his fidelity; also the Snowdrop, who was
lachrymose and in great grief. It was a most affectionate farewell
all round.

"Good-bye, Bob. _I_ won that toss--_didn't_ I?"

Oddly enough, _I_ was thinking of that, and didn't like it.

"What rot! it's only a joke, old fellow!" said Barty.

All this about an