himself and all France, 'Monsieur, it is a contribution to the
State!'

It is never going to rain, according to M. Loyal. When it is
impossible to deny that it is now raining in torrents, he says it
will be fine - charming - magnificent - to-morrow. It is never hot
on the Property, he contends. Likewise it is never cold. The
flowers, he says, come out, delighting to grow there; it is like
Paradise this morning; it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a
little fanciful in his language: smilingly observing of Madame
Loyal, when she is absent at vespers, that she is 'gone to her
salvation' - allee a son salut. He has a great enjoyment of
tobacco, but nothing would induce him to continue smoking face to
face with a lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his
breast pocket, scorches his blouse, and nearly sets him on fire.
In the Town Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a
full suit of black, with a waistcoat of magnificent breadth across
the chest, and a shirt-collar of fabulous proportions. Good M.
Loyal! Under blouse or waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest
hearts that beat in a nation teeming with gentle people. He has
had losses, and has been at his best under them. Not only the loss
of his way by night in the Fulham times - when a bad subject of an
Englishman, under pretence of seeing him home, took him into all
the night public-houses, drank 'arfanarf' in every one at his
expense, and finally fled, leaving him shipwrecked at Cleefeeway,
which we apprehend to be Ratcliffe Highway - but heavier losses
than that. Long ago a family of children and a mother were left in
one of his houses without money, a whole year. M. Loyal - anything
but as rich as we wish he had been - had not the heart to say 'you
must go;' so they stayed on and stayed on, and paying-tenants who