favorable appreciation of him by men and women. He dressed
neatly, but his morning coat was badly made, and his picturesque
felt hat was too old. In short, there seemed to be no good
quality about him which was not perversely associated with a
drawback of some kind. He was one of those harmless and luckless
men, possessed of excellent qualities, who fail nevertheless to
achieve popularity in their social sphere.

Francine handed his sketch to him, through the window; doubtful
whether the words that he had addressed to her were spoken in
jest or in earnest.

"I only presumed to touch your drawing," she said, "because it
was in danger."

"What danger?" he inquired.

Francine pointed to the pond. "If I had not been in time to pick
it up, it would have been blown into the water."

"Do you think it was worth picking up?"

Putting that question, he looked first at the sketch--then at the
view which it represented--then back again at the sketch. The
corners of his mouth turned upward with a humorous expression of
scorn. "Madam Nature," he said, "I beg your pardon." With those
words, he composedly tore his work of art into small pieces, and
scattered them out of the window.

"What a pity!" said Francine.