d'ye think, to have a mother from?" turning to the clergyman.

"A place of evil life, seemingly," answered that worthy in his high-
pitched, carrying voice. "I shall certainly ask to have my seat changed.
I cannot subject myself for the voyage to the neighborhood of a man of
profane speech."

The table nodded approval.

"A traitor to his country, too," said a pursy little man opposite,
snapping his jaws shut like a turtle.

A bony New England spinster turned deprecating eyes to him. "My," she
whispered shrilly, "he was just terrible, wasn't he? But so handsome! I
can't help but think it was more seasickness with him than an evil
nature."

Meanwhile the subject of discussion, who would have writhed far more at
the spinster's palliation of his offense than at the men's disdain, lay
in his tiny cabin, a prey to an attack of that nervous misery which
overtakes an artist out of his element as surely and speedily as air
suffocates a fish.

Stefan Byrd's table companions were guilty in his eyes of the one
unforgivable sin--they were ugly. Ugly alike in feature, dress, and
bearing, they had for him absolutely no excuse for existence. He felt no
bond of common humanity with them. In his lexicon what was not beautiful
was not human, and he recognized no more obligation of good fellowship
toward them than he would have done toward a company of ground-hogs. He
lay back, one fine and nervous hand across his eyes, trying to obliterate