he would enter a _pâtisserie_, point at one thing and another, take
without question the change that was handed him, and return to his room
to eat. The neighborhood, however, was blessed with a series of
second-hand book-shops. One day his eyes fell on an English-French
phrase-book. He bought it. He learned the meaning of the cabalistic
sign, "Table d'hôte. Dîner, 2f." He began to dine out.

In those lonely initiative weeks Lewis's mind sought out Nadir and dwelt
on it. He counted the months he had been away, and was astounded by
their number. Never had time seemed so long and so short. He longed to
talk to Natalie, to tell her the dream that had seized upon him and
gradually become real. At the little book-shop he bought ink, paper, and
pen, and began to write.

It was an enormous letter, for one talked easily to Natalie, even on
paper. At the end he begged her to write to him, to tell him all that
had happened at Nadir, if, indeed, anything beyond her marriage had
occurred to mark the passing months. What about the goats? A whole
string of questions about the goats followed, and then, again, was she
really married? Was she happy?

The intricacies of getting that letter weighed, properly stamped, and
posted were too much for Lewis. He sought aid not from Le Brux, but from
Cellette. It took him a long time to explain what he wanted. Cellette
stared at him. She seemed so stupid about it that Lewis felt like
shaking her again, an impulse that, assisted by memory, he easily
curbed.

"But," cried Cellette at last, "it is so easy--so simple! You go to the
post, you say, 'Kindly weigh this letter,' you ask how much to put on