."

"Neither is man all beast."

"Ah, that is it! If we are to be students of human nature we must not be
swayed in one direction or the other; and that is the difficulty--to be
dispassionate. Sometimes it is--very difficult!"

It came with a charm indescribable, this sudden admission of weakness,
accompanied by a deprecating, pleading glance, and the Irishman was
filled with a sudden sense of having recovered something personal and
precious.

"What are you?" he cried. "It's my turn to seek the truth now. What are
you, you incomprehensible being?"

The boy laughed, the old careless, light-hearted laugh of the creature
infinitely free.

"Do not ask! Do not ask!" he said. "A riddle is only interesting while
it is unsolved."

CHAPTER VI

With the laugh the personal moment passed. Henceforward it was the
technique of the pictures, the individualism of the artists that claimed
the boy's attention, and in this new field he proved himself yet another
being--a creature of quick perception and curiously mature judgment,
appreciative and observant, critical and generous.

In warm and interested discussion they made the tour of the rooms, and
when they emerged again into the frosty morning air and were greeted by
the dazzle of the sun, each was conscious of a deeper understanding. A
new expression of interest and something of respect was visible in the
Irishman's face as he looked down on the puzzling, elusive being whom he
had picked up from the skirts of chance as he might have filched a jewel
or a coin.

"Look here, boy!" he said, "we mustn't say good-bye just yet. Come
across the river, and let's find some little place where we can get a
seat and a cup of coffee."

The boy's only answer was to turn obediently, as the other slipped his
hand through his arm, and to allow himself to be guided back across the
Cours la Reine and over the Pont Alexandre III.

The bridge looked almost as impressive as the Place de la Concorde under
its white garment, and his glance ranged from the high columns, topped
by the winged horses, to the thronging bronze lamps, while the sense of
breath and freedom fitted with his secret thoughts.

Leaving the river behind them, they made their way onward across the
Esplanade des Invalides, through the serried lines of trees, stark and
formal against the January sky, to the rue Fabert. Here, in the rue
Fabert, lay that note of contrast that is bound into the very atmosphere
of Paris