there when a band of fifes, trombones, and trumpets struck up
close by, playing a popular polka tune. The very first bar put
Madame Ewans on her mettle. She drew Jean to her, settled his
hands in hers and lifting him off the ground with a jerk of the
hip, began dancing with him. She swung and swayed to the lilt
of the music; but the boy was awkward and embarrassed, and only
hindered his partner, dragging back and bumping against her.
She threw him off roughly and impatiently, saying sharply:

"You don't know how to dance, eh? You come here, Edgar."

She danced a while with him in the semi-darkness. Then, rosy and
smiling:

"Bravo!" she laughed; "we'll stop now."

Servien stood by in gloomy silence, conscious of his own
inefficiency. His heart swelled with a sullen anger. He was hurt,
and longed for somebody or something to vent his hate upon.

The drive home was a silent one. Jean nearly gave himself cramp
in his determined efforts not to touch with his own the knees
of Madame Ewans' who dozed on the back seat of the conveyance.
She hardly awoke enough to bid him good-bye when he alighted
at his father's door.

As he entered, he was struck for the first time by a smell of
paste that seemed past bearing. The room where he had slept for
years, happy in himself and loved by others, seemed a wretched
hole. He sat down on his bed and looked round gloomily and morosely