e, and the Taj Mahal, the famous mausoleum
in India.

Enough! I hated Kerner, and one day I met him and we became friends.
He was young and gloriously melancholy because his spirits were
so high and life had so much in store for him. Yes, he was almost
riotously sad. That was his youth. When a man begins to be hilarious
in a sorrowful way you can bet a million that he is dyeing his hair.
Kerner's hair was plentiful and carefully matted as an artist's
thatch should be. He was a cigaretteur, and he audited his dinners
with red wine. But, most of all, he was a fool. And, wisely, I
envied him, and listened patiently while he knocked Velasquez and
Tintoretto. Once he told me that he liked a story of mine that he had
come across in an anthology. He described it to me, and I was sorry
that Mr. Fitz-James O'Brien was dead and could not learn of the
eulogy of his work. But mostly Kerner made few breaks and was a
consistent fool.

I'd better explain what I mean by that. There was a girl. Now, a
girl, as far as I am concerned, is a thing that belongs in a seminary
or an album; but I conceded the existence of the animal in order to
retain Kerner's friendship. He showed me her picture in a locket--she
was a blonde or a brunette--I have forgotten which. She worked in a
factory for eight dollars a week. Lest factories quote this wage by
way of vindication, I will add that the girl had worked for five
years to reach that supreme elevation of remuneration, beginning at
$1.50 per week.

Kerner's father was worth a couple of millions He was willing to
stand for art, but he drew the line at the factory girl. So Kerner
disinherited his father and walked out to a cheap studio and lived
on sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner. Farroni had the
artistic soul and a line of credit for painters and poets, nicely
adjusted. Sometimes Kerner sold a picture and bought some new
tapestry, a ring and a dozen silk cravats, and paid Farroni two
dollars on account.

One evening Kerner had me to dinner with himself and the factory
girl. They were to be married as soon as Kerner could slosh paint
profitably. As for the ex-father's two millions--pouf!

She was a wonder. Small and half-way pretty, and as much at her ease
in that cheap cafe as though she were only in the Palmer House,
Chicago, with a souvenir spoon already safely hidden in her shirt
waist. She was natural. Two things I noticed about her especially.
Her belt buckle was exactly