excuse for his riding down a child on his way to the hunt. Later, during
the winter just past, we had been hearing from Monte Carlo of his
disastrous plunges at that most imbecile of all games, roulette.

Every event, no matter how trifling, in this man's pitiful career had
been recorded in the American newspapers with an elaboration which, for
my part, I found infuriatingly tiresome. I have lived in Paris so long
that I am afraid to go home: I have too little to show for my years of
pottering with paint and canvas, and I have grown timid about all the
changes that have crept in at home. I do not know the "new men," I do
not know how they would use me, and fear they might make no place for
me; and so I fit myself more closely into the little grooves I have worn
for myself, and resign myself to stay. But I am no "expatriate." I know
there is a feeling at home against us who remain over here to do our
work, but in most instances it is a prejudice which springs from a
misunderstanding. I think the quality of patriotism in those of us who
"didn't go home in time" is almost pathetically deep and real, and, like
many another oldish fellow in my position, I try to keep as close to
things at home as I can. All of my old friends gradually ceased to write
to me, but I still take three home newspapers, trying to follow the
people I knew and the things that happen; and the ubiquity of so
worthless a creature as Larrabee Harman in the columns I dredged for
real news had long been a point of irritation to this present exile. Not
only that: he had usurped space in the Continental papers, and of late
my favourite Parisian journal had served him to me with my morning
coffee, only hinting his name, but offering him with that gracious
satire characteristic of the Gallic journalist writing of anything
American. And so this grotesque wreck of a man was well known to the
boulevard--one of its sights. That was to be perceived by the flutter he
caused, by the turning of heads in his direction, and the low laughter