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 the recipient of compliments and confidences, given glimpses of situations at which formerly he had only hazarded guesses. In short, he found that many of Floss's lost souls were well worth a reasonable amount of attention on the part of a man whose brow had once been so high that his eyes were on the level of clouds while his feet tripped over the dung-heaps. At their worst their schemes were diverting; at their best they threw off spectacular showers of sparks from the flames that consumed them. Moreover their wit, their slang, their acrimony, their jollity added condiments that the life of a minor diplomatist was badly in need of.

"Don't you ever get tired of them, Floss?" he asked, as he was taking leave.

"Oh, now and then I clear 'em all out and take a trip somewheres," said the princess. "But I like rotters—always have."

In the train he pondered Floss's admission. He could understand it, for he had a weakness for rotters himself. Max Bruff and Marthe, Léon and Olga, whose ghost still walked,—each was a rotter after his fashion, and each had occupied a large space in his mind or his heart.

By the end of the summer he had forced his way through the story to a conclusion which annoyed him by being a virtual contradiction of his whole thesis.