shall never understand this country!" she cried.

"When one has good introductions and knows how to comport oneself, one
makes much"--and he rubbed his thumb and fingers together, according to the
national code of pantomime.

And then his hosts would tell him about England and the fogs, wherein he
was greatly interested; or Septimus would discourse to him of inventions,
the weak spot in which his shrewd intelligence generally managed to strike,
and then Septimus would run his fingers through this hair and say, "God
bless my soul, I never thought of that," and Emmy would laugh; or else they
talked politics. Hegisippe, being a Radical, _fiche_'d himself absolutely
of the Pope and the priests. To be kind to one's neighbors and act as a
good citizen summed up his ethical code. He was as moral as any devout
Catholic.

"What about the girl in the Rue des Francs-Bouchers?" asked Emmy.

"If I were a good Catholic, I would have two, for then I could get
absolution," he cried gaily, and laughed immoderately at his jest.

The days of his visits were marked red in Emmy's calendar.

"I wish I were a funny beggar, and had lots of conversation like our friend
Cruchot, and could make you laugh," said Septimus one day, when the _taedium
vitae_ lay heavy on her.

"If you had a sense of humor you wouldn't be here," she replied, with some
bitterness.

Septimus rubbed his thin hands together thoughtfully.

"I don't know why you should say that," said he. "I never heard a joke I
didn't see the point of. I'm rather good at it."

"If you don't see the point of this joke, I can't explain it, my dear. It
has a point the size of a pyramid."

He nodded and looked dreamily out of the window at the opposite houses.
Sometimes her sharp sayings hurt him. But he understood all, in his dim
way, and pardoned all. He never allowed her to see him wince. He stood so
long silent that Emmy looked up anxiously at his face, dreading the effect
of her words. His hand hung by his side--he was near the sofa where she
lay. She took it gently, in a revulsion of feeling, kissed it, and, as he
turned, flung it from her.

"Go, my dear; go. I'm not fit to talk to you. Yes, go. You oughtn't to be
here; you ought to be in England in your comfortable home with Wiggleswick
and your books and inventions. You're too good for me, and I'm hateful. I
know it, and it drives me mad."

He took her hand in his turn and held it for a second or two in both of his
and p