“Come into the kitchen,—­monsieur, there is nobody in there.  ’Brr!  Il fait un froid etonnant’!”

“What sort of customers have you just now?” asked Shelton, as they passed into the kitchen.

“Always the same clientele,” replied the little man; “not so numerous, of course, it being summer.”

“Could n’t you find anything better than this to do?”

The barber’s crow’s-feet radiated irony.

“When I first came to London,” said he, “I secured an engagement at one of your public institutions.  I thought my fortune made.  Imagine, monsieur, in that sacred place I was obliged to shave at the rate of ten a penny!  Here, it’s true, they don’t pay me half the time; but when I’m paid, I ’m paid.  In this, climate, and being ‘poitrinaire’, one doesn’t make experiments.  I shall finish my days here.  Have you seen that young man who interested you?  There ’s another!  He has spirit, as I had once—­’il fait de la philosophie’, as I do—­and you will see, monsieur, it will finish him.  In this world what you want is to have no spirit.  Spirit ruins you.”

Shelton looked sideways at the little man with his sardonic, yellow, half-dead face, and the incongruity of the word “spirit” in his mouth struck him so sharply that he smiled a smile with more pity in it than any burst of tears.

“Shall we ’sit down?” he said, offering a cigarette.

“Merci, monsieur, it is always a pleasure to smoke a good cigarette.  You remember, that old actor who gave you a Jeremiad?  Well, he’s dead.  I was the only one at his bedside; ‘un vrai drole’.  He was another who had spirit.  And you will see, monsieur, that young man in whom you take an interest, he’ll die in a hospital, or in some hole or other, or even on the highroad; having closed his eyes once too often some cold night; and all because he has something in him which will not accept things as they are, believing always that they should be better.  ’Il n’y a riens de plus tragique’!”

“According to you, then,” said Shelton—­and the conversation seemed to him of a sudden to have taken too personal a turn—­“rebellion of any sort is fatal.”

“Ah!” replied the little man, with the eagerness of one whose ideal it is to sit under the awning of a cafe, and talk life upside down, “you pose me a great problem there!  If one makes rebellion; it is always probable that one will do no good to any one and harm one’s self.  The law of the majority arranges that.  But I would draw your attention to this”—­and he paused; as if it were a real discovery to blow smoke through his nose—­“if you rebel it is in all likelihood because you are forced by your nature to rebel; this is one of the most certain things in life.  In any case, it is necessary to avoid falling between two stools—­which is unpardonable,” he ended with complacence.

Shelton thought he had never seen a man who looked more completely as if he had fallen between two stools, and he had inspiration enough to feel that the little barber’s intellectual rebellion and the action logically required by it had no more than a bowing acquaintanceship.