a rusty overcoat and wisps of cloth in place of socks. Shelton
endeavoured to pass unseen, but the sleeper woke.

"Ah, it's you, monsieur!" he said "I received your letter this evening,
and have lost no time." He looked down at himself and tittered, as
though to say, "But what a state I 'm in!"

The young foreigner's condition was indeed more desperate than on the
occasion of their first meeting, and Shelton invited him upstairs.

"You can well understand," stammered Ferrand, following his host, "that I
did n't want to miss you this time. When one is like this--" and a spasm
gripped his face.

"I 'm very glad you came," said Shelton doubtfully.

His visitor's face had a week's growth of reddish beard; the deep tan of
his cheeks gave him a robust appearance at variance with the fit of,
trembling which had seized on him as soon as he had entered.

"Sit down-sit down," said Shelton; "you 're feeling ill!"

Ferrand smiled. "It's nothing," said he; "bad nourishment."

Shelton left him seated on the edge of an armchair, and brought him in
some whisky.

"Clothes," said Ferrand, when he had drunk, "are what I want. These are
really not good enough."

The statement was correct, and Shelton, placing some garments in the
bath-room, invited his visitor to make himself at home. While the
latter, then, was doing this, Shelton enjoyed the luxuries of
self-denial, hunting up things he did not want, and laying them in two
portmanteaus. This done, he waited for his visitor's return.

The young foreigner at length emerged, unshaved indeed, and innocent of
boots, but having in other respects an air of gratifying affluence.

"This is a little different," he said. "The boots, I fear"--and, pulling
down his, or rather Shelton's, socks he exhibited sores the size of half
a crown. "One does n't sow without reaping some harvest or another. My
stomach has shrunk," he added simply. "To see things one must suffer.
'Voyager, c'est plus fort que moi'!"

Shelton failed to perceive that this was one way of disguising the human
animal's natural dislike of work--there was a touch of pathos, a
suggestion of God-knows-what-might-have-been, about this fellow.

"I have eaten my illusions," said the young foreigner, smoking a
cigarette. "When you've starved a few times, your eyes are opened.
'Savoir, c'est mon metier; mais remarquez ceci, monsieur': It 's not
always the intellectuals who succeed."

"When you get a job," said Shel