sentimental and susceptible imbecile. He knew it. He was in wild spirits.

"Could you realize that one of your dangers might be a shaking?" she
cried. "Is your seriousness a lost art?" Her laughter ceased suddenly.
"Ah, no. I understand. Thiers said the French laugh always, in order not
to weep. I haven't lived here five years. I should laugh too, if I were
you."

"Look at the moon," he responded. "We Plattvillains own that with the best
of metropolitans, and, for my part, I see more of it here. You do not
appreciate us. We have large landscapes in the heart of the city, and
what other capital possesses advantages like that? Next winter the railway
station is to have a new stove for the waiting-room. Heaven itself is one
of our suburbs--it is so close that all one has to do is to die. You
insist upon my being French, you see, and I know you are fond of nonsense.
How did you happen to put 'The Walrus and the Carpenter' at the bottom of
a page of Fisbee's notes?"

"Was it? How were you sure it was I?"

"In Carlow County!"

"He might have written it himself."

"Fisbee has never in his life read anything lighter than cuneiform
inscriptions."

"Miss Briscoe----"

"She doesn't read Lewis Carroll; and it was not her hand. What made you