here to sleep,' says I.

"'What will you go for?'

"'Ten marks.'

"'Here, then, get out!' I can tell you, monsieur, one must n't have a
thin skin if one wants to exploit consuls."

His yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his cigarette, his ironical
lips flickered. Shelton thought of his own ignorance of life. He could
not recollect ever having gone without a meal.

"I suppose," he said feebly, "you've often starved." For, having always
been so well fed, the idea of starvation was attractive.

Ferrand smiled.

"Four days is the longest," said he. "You won't believe that story. . .
. It was in Paris, and I had lost my money on the race-course. There was
some due from home which didn't come. Four days and nights I lived on
water. My clothes were excellent, and I had jewellery; but I never even
thought of pawning them. I suffered most from the notion that people
might guess my state. You don't recognise me now?"

"How old were you then?" said Shelton.

"Seventeen; it's curious what one's like at that age."

By a flash of insight Shelton saw the well-dressed boy, with sensitive,
smooth face, always on the move about the streets of Paris, for fear that
people should observe the condition of his stomach. The story was a
valuable commentary. His thoughts were brusquely interrupted; looking in
Ferrand's face, he saw to his dismay tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I 've suffered too much," he stammered; "what do I care now what becomes
of me?"

Shelton was disconcerted; he wished 'to say something sympathetic,' but,
being an Englishman, could only turn away his eyes.

"Your turn 's coming," he said at last.

"Ah! when you've lived my life," broke out his visitor, "nothing 's any
good. My heart's in rags. Find me anything worth keeping, in this
menagerie."

Moved though he was, Shelton wriggled in his chair, a prey to racial
instinct, to an ingrained over-tenderness, perhaps, of soul that forbade
him from exposing his emotions, and recoiled from the revelation of other
people's. He could stand it on the stage, he could stand it in a book,
but in real life he could not stand it. When Ferrand had gone off with a
portmanteau in each hand, he sat down and told Antonia:

. . . The poor chap broke down and sat crying like a child; and
instead of making me feel sorry, it turned me into stone. The more
sympathetic I wanted to be, the gruffer I grew. Is it fear of ridicule,
independence, or cons