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 some deep, indefinable disappointment; it was tolling the knell of another illusion—the illusion that genius dwelt on a mountain top, spoke in esoteric phrases, and lived on nectar and ambrosia.

"What if you went down to the cellar and brought up a bottle of the very special Tokay!" Casimir was shouting to his wife. "One bottle! No, two bottles! What do you say to a sip of some very special Tokay, young friend from America? They don't give you that in Chicago, hein!"

Though Grover had never set foot in Chicago, he agreed readily to the truth of the assumption, and was awarded a hearty thump on the back. Ho hit's the rich wot 'as the pleasures, as Max would have said. If Casimir was a fair criterion of genius, he reflected, Max's future was assured.

"But, mon ami," protested Mme. Casimir, "we were saving the Tokay for—"

"Oui, oui, good spouse, for the present moment. Allez! Houp!"

With a tinkle of keys and a glitter in her eye, Mme. Casimir departed for the cellar. A kind Providence, thought Grover, probably lets her get even by bossing the chauffeur within an inch of his life. Where on earth, he wondered, did they keep him? Was he had in periodically to drive Madame through the Bois, did they motor down to some bourgeois estate in the country for week-ends, or was the chauffeur a mere figure of speech on the tongue of the ironic Vaudreuil. Vaud-