“By nature,” went on the little man, “I am an optimist; it is in consequence of this that I now make pessimism.  I have always had ideals; seeing myself cut off from them for ever, I must complain; to complain, monsieur, is very sweet!”

Shelton wondered what these ideals had been, but had no answer ready; so he nodded, and again held out his cigarettes, for, like a true Southerner, the little man had thrown the first away, half smoked.

“The greatest pleasure in life,” continued the Frenchman, with a bow, “is to talk a little to a being who is capable of understanding you.  At present we have no one here, now that that old actor’s dead.  Ah! there was a man who was rebellion incarnate!  He made rebellion as other men make money, ‘c’etait son metier’; when he was no longer capable of active revolution, he made it getting drunk.  At the last this was his only way of protesting against Society.  An interesting personality, ’je le regrette beaucoup’.  But, as you see, he died in great distress, without a soul to wave him farewell, because as you can well understand, monsieur, I don’t count myself.  He died drunk.  ’C’etait un homme’!”

Shelton had continued staring kindly at the little man; the barber added hastily: 

“It’s difficult to make an end like that one has moments of weakness.”

“Yes,” assented Shelton, “one has indeed.”

The little barber looked at him with cynical discretion.

“Oh!” he said, “it ’s to the destitute that such things are important.  When one has money, all these matters—­”

He shrugged his shoulders.  A smile had lodged amongst his crow’s-feet; he waved his hand as though to end the subject.

A sense of having been exposed came over Shelton.

“You think, then,” said he, “that discontent is peculiar to the destitute?”

“Monsieur,” replied the little barber, “a plutocrat knows too well that if he mixes in that ‘galere’ there ’s not a dog in the streets more lost than he.”

Shelton rose.

“The rain is over.  I hope you ’ll soon be better; perhaps you ’ll accept this in memory of that old actor,” and he slipped a sovereign into the little Frenchman’s hand.

The latter bowed.

“Whenever you are passing, monsieur,” he said eagerly, “I shall be charmed to see you.”

And Shelton walked away. “‘Not a dog in the streets more lost,’” thought he; “now what did he mean by that?”

Something of that “lost dog” feeling had gripped his spirit.  Another month of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might even kill his love.  In the excitement of his senses and his nerves, caused by this strain of waiting, everything seemed too vivid; all was beyond life size; like Art—­whose truths; too strong for daily use, are thus, unpopular with healthy people.  As will the, bones in a worn face, the spirit underlying things had reached the surface; the meanness and intolerable measure of hard facts, were too apparent.  Some craving for help, some instinct, drove him into Kensington, for he found himself before his, mother’s house.  Providence seemed bent on flinging him from pole to pole.