glass. Sometimes you forget yourself and get natural, like you did in
the _café_ this time back; then, all of a sudden, some imp of suspicion
shakes his tail at you and says, 'Look here, young man, put that
Irishman in his place! Keep him at a respectable arm's length!' Now,
isn't that gospel truth?"

The boy laughed, vanquished. "Monsieur," he said, naïvely, "I will not
do it again."

"That's right! You see, I'm not interesting or picturesque enough to
suspect. When all's said and done, I'm just a poor devil of an Irishman
with enough imagination to prevent his doing any particular harm in this
world, and enough money to prevent his doing any special good. My name
is Edward Fitzgerald Blake, and I have an old barracks of a castle in
County Clare. I have five aunts, seven uncles, and twenty-four first
cousins, every one of whom thinks me a lost soul; but I have neither
sister nor brother, wife nor child to help or hinder me. There now! I
have gone to confession, and you must give me absolution and an easy
penance!"

Max laughed. "Thank you, monsieur!"

"Not 'monsieur,' for goodness' sake! Plain Ned, if you don't mind."

"Ned?" The slight uncertainty, coupled with the foreign intonation, lent
a charm to the name.

"That's it! But I never heard it sound half so well before. Personally,
it always struck me as being rather like its owner--of no particular
significance. But I must be coming down to earth again, I have an