me well. So he nodded to de Sourdam of the Austrian embassy and had his
word with Pluyvis, and rejoiced to have impressed me--I could see him
bubble with happiness and purr. He proposed that we should stroll as far
as the paper kiosque that he patronised habitually--it was kept by a
fellow-Israelite--a snuffy little old woman.

I understood that in the joy of his heart he was for expanding, for
wasting a few minutes on a stroll.

"Haven't stretched my legs for months," he explained.

We strolled there through the summer twilight. It was so pleasant to
saunter through the young summer night. There were so many little things
to catch the eyes, so many of the little things down near the earth;
expressions on faces of the passers, the set of a collar, the quaint
foreign tightness of waist of a good bourgeoise who walked arm in arm
with her perspiring spouse. The gilding on the statue of Joan of Arc had
a pleasant littleness of Philistinism, the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli
broke up the grey light pleasantly too. I remembered a little shop--a
little Greek affair with a windowful of pinch-beck--where I had been
given a false five-franc piece years and years ago. The same villainous
old Levantine stood in the doorway, perhaps the fez that he wore was the
same fez. The little old woman that we strolled to was bent nearly
double. Her nose touched her wares as often as not, her mittened hands
sought quiveringly the papers that the correspondent asked for. I liked
him the better for his solicitude for this forlorn piece of flotsam of
his own race.

"Always come here," he exclaimed; "one gets into habits. Very honest
woman, too, you can be certain of getting your change. If you're a