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 cool precocity of his eyes, there was sometimes a plaintive wistfulness about the boy that made Ogle pity him and wish to be of use to him. "Of course that means you do hate it, Hyacinthe," he said. "Why did you get into it?"

"A friend of my mother's was so kind as to appoint me; but it was only two months until he drove his automobile into another one at one hundred fifty kilometres an hour. After that he was not in a position to do anything except for the director of a—how do you say it?—a place where they burn dead people. He had expressed that wish. So I am still doing the nothing to which he appoint' me."

"But your mother told me there was a chance you might go into something with an impresario in Paris."

"Did she?" For an instant Hyacinthe looked at him with a bright, interrogative sharpness; then he cast down his eyes. "Well, I might believe in such a chance—if it happen'!" he said pessimistically. "Good-bye until dinner." But after he had turned away, he turned again. "The sunset will come before long, and you know it is famous here. You couldn't do anything better with your time than to spend the next hour on the roof of the hotel."

His light sketch of his patron, Mme. Momoro's