“I always wondered,” I said, mildly.

“That’s de Sourdam I nodded to as we came in, and that old chap there is Pluyvis—­the Affaire man, you know.  I must have a word with him in a minute, if you’ll excuse me.”

He began to ask affectionately after the health of the excellent Fox, asked if I saw him often, and so on and so on.  I divined with amusement that was pleasurable that the little man had his own little axe to grind, and thought I might take a turn at the grindstone if he managed me well.  So he nodded to de Sourdam of the Austrian embassy and had his word with Pluyvis, and rejoiced to have impressed me—­I could see him bubble with happiness and purr.  He proposed that we should stroll as far as the paper kiosque that he patronised habitually—­it was kept by a fellow-Israelite—­a snuffy little old woman.

I understood that in the joy of his heart he was for expanding, for wasting a few minutes on a stroll.

“Haven’t stretched my legs for months,” he explained.

We strolled there through the summer twilight.  It was so pleasant to saunter through the young summer night.  There were so many little things to catch the eyes, so many of the little things down near the earth; expressions on faces of the passers, the set of a collar, the quaint foreign tightness of waist of a good bourgeoise who walked arm in arm with her perspiring spouse.  The gilding on the statue of Joan of Arc had a pleasant littleness of Philistinism, the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli broke up the grey light pleasantly too.  I remembered a little shop—­a little Greek affair with a windowful of pinch-beck—­where I had been given a false five-franc piece years and years ago.  The same villainous old Levantine stood in the doorway, perhaps the fez that he wore was the same fez.  The little old woman that we strolled to was bent nearly double.  Her nose touched her wares as often as not, her mittened hands sought quiveringly the papers that the correspondent asked for.  I liked him the better for his solicitude for this forlorn piece of flotsam of his own race.

“Always come here,” he exclaimed; “one gets into habits.  Very honest woman, too, you can be certain of getting your change.  If you’re a stranger you can’t be sure that they won’t give you Italian silver, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” I answered.  I knew, too, that he wished me to purchase something.  I followed the course of her groping hands, caught sight of the Revue Rouge, and remembered that it contained something about Greenland.  I helped myself to it, paid for it, and received my just change.  I felt that I had satisfied the little man, and felt satisfied with myself.

“I want to see Radet’s article on Greenland,” I said.