ier
of Morocco to the great oasis of Figuig, where no European has
penetrated, and which is the cause of the present conflict. Will that
suit you?"

"Admirably!" exclaimed Daddy Walter. "And the title?"

"From Tunis to Tangiers."

"Splendid!"

Du Roy went off to search the files of the _Vie Francaise_ for his first
article, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique," which, rebaptized,
touched up, and modified, would do admirably, since it dealt with
colonial policy, the Algerian population, and an excursion in the
province of Oran. In three-quarters of an hour it was rewritten, touched
up, and brought to date, with a flavor of realism, and praises of the
new Cabinet. The manager, having read the article, said: "It is capital,
capital, capital! You are an invaluable fellow. I congratulate you."

And Du Roy went home to dinner delighted with his day's work, despite
the check at the Church of the Trinity, for he felt the battle won. His
wife was anxiously waiting for him. She exclaimed, as soon as she saw
him: "Do you know that Laroche-Mathieu is Minister for Foreign Affairs?"

"Yes; I have just written an article on Algeria, in connection with
it."

"What?"

"You know, the first we wrote together, 'The Recollections of a Chasseur
d'Afrique,' revised and corrected for the occasion."

She smiled, saying: "Ah, that is very good!" Then, after a few moments'
reflection, she continued: "I was thinking--that continuation you were
to have written then, and that you--put off. We might set to work on it
now. It would make a nice series, and very appropriate to the
situation."

He replied, sitting down to table: "Exactly, and there is nothing in the
way of it now that cuckold of a Forestier is dead."

She said quietly, in a dry and hurt tone: "That joke is more than out of
place, and I beg of you to put an end to it. It has lasted too long
already."

He was about to make an ironical answer, when a telegram was brought
him, containing these words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come
at four o'clock to-morrow to the Parc Monceau."

He understood, and with heart suddenly filled with joy, he said to his
wife, as he slipped the message into his pocket: "I will not do so any
more, darling; it was stupid, I admit."

And he began his dinner. While eating he kept repeating to himself the

words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come at four o'clock
to-morrow to the Parc Monceau." So she was yielding. That