gh a
rose-garden.

Once only, during the early part of their journey, did a gleam of
joyousness pierce the dull glaze of Mr. Ducksmith's eyes. He had
procured from the bookstall of a station a pile of English newspapers,
and was reading them in the train, while his wife knitted the
interminable sock. Suddenly he folded a _Daily Telegraph_, and handed
it over to Aristide so that he should see nothing but a half-page
advertisement. The great capitals leaped to Aristide's eyes:--

"DUCKSMITH'S DELICATE JAMS."

"I am _the_ Ducksmith," said he. "I started and built up the business.
When I found that I could retire, I turned it into a limited liability
company, and now I am free and rich and able to enjoy the advantages of
foreign travel."

Mrs. Ducksmith started, sighed, and dropped a stitch.

"Did you also make pickles?" asked Aristide.

"I did manufacture pickles, but I made my name in jam. In the trade you
will find it an honoured one."

"It is that in every nursery in Europe," Aristide declared, with polite
hyperbole.

"I have done my best to deserve my reputation," said Mr. Ducksmith, as
impervious to flattery as to impressions of beauty.

"_Pecaire!_" said Aristide to himself, "how can I galvanize these
corpses?"

As the soulless days went by this problem grew to be Aristide's main
solicitude. He felt strangled, choked, borne down by an intolerable
weight. What could he do to stir their vitality? Should he fire off
pistols behind them, just to see them jump? But would they jump? Would
not Mr. Ducksmith merely turn his rabbit-eyes, set in their bloodhound
sockets, vacantly on him, and assume that the detonations were part of
the tour's programme? Could he not fill him up with conflicting
alcohols, and see what inebriety would do for him? But Mr. Ducksmith
declined insidious potations. He drank only at meal-times, and
sparingly. Aristide prayed that some Thais might come along, cast her
spell upon him, and induce him to wink. He himself was powerless. His
raciest stories fell on dull ears; none of his jokes called forth a
smile. At last, having taken them to nearly all the historic chateaux of
Touraine, without eliciting one cry of admiration, he gave Mr. Ducksmith
up in despair and devoted his attention to the lady.

Mrs. Ducksmith parted her smooth black hair in the middle and fastened
it in a knob at the back of her head. Her clothes were good and new, but
some desolate dressmaker had c