and told me how glad he was that I was an admirer of Antoine Vaurelle's
novels.

"Who isn't?" I said with a shrug, and, to get the conversation on to
safer ground, I added hastily that in some ways I almost liked
"Consolatrice" best.

He shook my hand again. So did he. A great book.

"But of course," he said, "one must read it in the original French. It is
the book of all others which loses by translation."

"Of course," I agreed. Really, I don't see what else I could have done.

"Do you remember that wonderful phrase--" and he rattled it off.
"Magnificent, is it not?"

"Magnificent," I said, remembering an appointment instead. "Well, I must
be getting on. Good-bye." And, as I walked off, I patted my forehead with
my handkerchief and wondered why the day had grown so warm suddenly.

However the next day was even warmer. Henri came to see me with a book
under his arm. We all have one special book of our own which we recommend
to our acquaintances, regarding the love of it as perhaps the best
passport to our friendship. This was Henri's. He was about to test me. I
had read and admired his favourite Vaurelle--in the original French.
Would I love his darling Laforgue? My reputation as a man, as a writer,
as a critic, depended on it. He handed me the book--in French.

"It is all there," he said reverently, as he gave it to me. "All