’Of course it was!  And now, how was this good husband?  And how was life treating them both?’ He put the questions with deep solicitude as he poured out the coffee, and madame, standing by the table and smoothing her apron, grew serious, and before she was aware was pouring forth the grievance that at the moment was darkening her existence—­the disappointment that had befallen the Maison Gustav when her father-in-law, a market gardener near Issy, who had a nice little sum of money laid by, had married again at the age of sixty-four.

’Could monsieur conceive anything more grotesque?  An old man of sixty-four marrying a young woman of twenty!  Of course there would be a child!’ Her shoulders went up, her hands went out in expressive gesture.  ’And her little Leon would be cheated of his grandfather’s money by this creature who—­’

At this juncture the sound of a kettle boiling over brought the story to an abrupt end, and madame flew off, leaving her guests to a not unwelcome solitude.

As her black skirt whisked round the corner of the door the boy looked at his companion.

“You come here often,” he said.

The other laughed.  “I’ve never set foot in the place before.  It’s a way we Irish have of putting our fingers into other people’s pies!  Some call it intrusion”—­he glanced quizzically at the boy—­“but these good creatures understand it.  They’re more human than the Saxon or the—­” Again a glint of humor crossed his face, as he paused on his unfinished sentence.

The boy reddened and impulsively leaned across the table.

“You have taught me something, monsieur,” he said, shyly, “and I have much to learn.”

The other returned the glance seriously, intently.  “What is it I have taught you?”

“That in the smaller ways of life it is not possible to stand quite alone.”

The Irishman laid down his cigarette.  With native quickness of comprehension, the spirit of banter dropped from him, his mood merged into the boy’s mood.

“No,” he said, “we are not meant to stand quite alone, and when two of us are flung up against each other as we have been flung, by a wave of circumstance, you may take it that the gods control the currents.  In our case I would say, ‘Let’s bow to the inevitable!  Let’s be friends!’” He put out his hand and took the boy’s strong, slim fingers in his grasp.

“I don’t want your secret,” he added, with a quickening interest, “but I want to know one thing.  Tell me what you are seeking here in Paris?  Is it pleasure, or money, or what?”

He watched the boy’s mobile face as he put his question:  he saw it swept by emotion, transfigured as if by some inner light; then the hand in his trembled a little, and the gray eyes with their flecks of gold were lifted to his own, giving insight into the hidden soul.

“I want more than pleasure, monsieur—­more than money,” he said.  “I want first life—­and then fame.”