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N’ you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur, ’Astang?” demanded Madame Marotte the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of the pension, rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.

“I am sure I shall like it,” he replied, wondering at his own depression of spirits.

The maid brought him coffee, and rolls. He returned the vacant glance of the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee and sat crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame Marotte who had tact enough not to bother him.

Presently a maid entered with a tray on which was balanced two bowls of chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The maid deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at Hastings. Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all except years, marched into the room and took the table near the window. They were evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of recognition, was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified his depression. He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.

The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of Hastings’ presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but