left us with an affectionate shake of the hand and a sidelong glance of
jealousy and mistrust at B.'s respectable friend.

"You're looking pretty well today, Count Bragard," B. said amiably.

"I do well enough," the Count answered. "It is a frightful strain--you of
course realise that--for anyone who has been accustomed to the decencies,
let alone the luxuries, of life. This filth"--he pronounced the word with
indescribable bitterness--"this herding of men like cattle--they treat us
no better than pigs here. The fellows drop their dung in the very room
where they sleep. What is one to expect of a place like this? _Ce n'est
pas une existence_"--his French was glib and faultless.

"I was telling my friend that you knew Cezanne," said B. "Being an artist
he was naturally much interested."

Count Bragard stopped in astonishment, and withdrew his hands slowly from
the tails of his coat. "Is it possible!" he exclaimed, in great
agitation. "What an astonishing coincidence! I am myself a painter. You
perhaps noticed this badge"--he indicated a button attached to his left
lapel, and I bent and read the words: On War Service. "I always wear it,"
he said with a smile of faultless sorrow, and resumed his walk. "They
don't know what it means here, but I wear it all the same. I was a
special representative for The London Sphere at the front in this war. I
did the trenches and all that sort of thing. They paid me well; I got
fifteen pounds a week. And why not? I am an R.A. My specialty was horses.
I painted the finest horses in England, among them the King's own entry
in the last Derby. Do you know London?" We said no. "If you are ever in
London, go to the" (I forget the name) "Hotel--one of the best in town.
It has a beautiful large bar, exquisitely furnished in the very best