the Greek."

"Ah! My first peep!"

"And what do you see?"

"Do you know, I see a queer thing. I see a boy who has thought. You have
thought. Don't deny it!"

"On religion?"

"On religion--and other things; you acknowledge it in one look."

The boy laughed, like a child who has been caught at some forbidden
game.

"Perhaps it was your imagination."

"Perhaps! But, look here, we can't stand all day discoursing in the
Cours la Reine! Where shall we wander--left or right?" He nodded first
in the direction of the river, then toward the large building that faced
them on the right, from the roof of which an array of small flags
fluttered an invitation.

The boy's eyes followed his movement. "Pictures!" he exclaimed. "I
didn't know there was an exhibition open."

"Live and learn! Come along!"

Together they stepped into the roadway, where the frosty surface was
scarred by the soldiers' feet, and together they reached the doorway of
the large building and read the legend, "_Soctiete Peintres et
Sculpteurs Francais_."

The Irishman read the words with the faintly humorous, faintly sceptical
glance that he seemed to bestow upon the world at large.

"Remember I'm throwing out no bait, but I expect 'twill be value for a
couple of francs."

They entered the bare hall and, mounting a cold and rigid staircase,
found themselves confronted by a turnstile.

The Irishman was in the act of laying a two-franc piece in the hand of
the custodian when the boy plucked him by the sleeve and, turning, he
saw the curious eyes full of a sudden anxiety.

"Monsieur, pardon me! You know Paris well?"

"I live here for five months out of the twelve."

"Then you can tell me if--if this exhibition will be well attended. I
want with all my heart to see the pictures, but I--I dislike
crowds--fashionable crowds." His voice was agitated; it was as if he had
suddenly awakened from his pleasant dream of Bohemian comradeship to a
remembrance of the Paris that lay about him.

The Irishman expressed no surprise: his only reply was to move nearer to
the guardian of the turnstile.

"Monsieur," he said in French, "have the goodness to inform me how many
persons have passed through the turnstile this morning?"

The man looked at him without interest, though with some surprise. 'Not
many of the world were to be seen at such an hour,' he informed him.
'So far, he had admitted two gentlemen--artists, and three
ladies--American.'

The Irishm