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 reaction on that young man's part but a shrug of the shoulders. It would be comfortable to be French and have shoulders in place of a conscience. On his own part, however, there would be a far-reaching reaction. His trust in himself would wane. For the chances were, he would never forgive himself for losing the opportunity to fill out important gaps in his information. That answered his qualms, and as he finished dressing he knew perfectly well that the doubt as to his going forward had never been more than academic. It would have been better for me, he reflected, if I'd never heard the word "inhibition"; for the more inhibitions you hear about, the more things you have to do to prove you haven't got any.

As he left the house he caught himself sighing at the coming burden of translation,—not the translation of English thoughts into French words, for that he could accomplish with a fair amount of ease and accuracy, but the far more difficult task of translating the very substance of one's thoughts and sensations into the thoughts and sensations of one who has lived, rather than one who has merely been a precocious imaginer, translating them till one's personality stood revealed not as the Harvard faculty had tried to make it, but as a psychoanalyst would see it, all inside out, familiar but astonishing, a humble but terrible and rather exciting thing to witness.

As he stood before the door of an elegant building overlooking the Parc Monceau, another disconcerting