er, a short,
stout man, with a pointed black beard, and a secret passion for the
fine arts, conceived a great fancy for the young American. When they
reached Bordeaux he took Richard to his favourite theatre and
introduced him to the leader of the orchestra, a person with a crinkly
yellow face and a soft heart, whose name was Camembert, for which
reason his intimates called him "the Cheese."

The theatre was about to close for the summer, but four of the
musicians had made a plan for a concert tour in various small cities
and watering-places. When M. Camembert had heard Richard play after a
joyous supper in the famous restaurant of the _Chapon Fin_, he
embraced him with effusion and invited him to join the company.

Nothing could have suited the young man's humour better. They
wandered from one city-in-etching to another,--Angouleme, Poitiers,
Tours, Rennes, Caen,--grey and crumbly towns, white and trim towns.
They visited the rocky resorts of Brittany and the sandy resorts of
Normandy. They played in a little theatre, or in a casino, or in the
ballroom of a hotel. Their fortunes varied, but in the main they were
prosperous. The announcements of "The Renowned Camembert Quintette,
with a celebrated American Soloist" attracted an amused curiosity. And
the music was good, for the old man was a real master, and the
practice was strenuous and persistent. It was hard work, but it was
also good fun, and the great thing for Richard was that he learned
more of the human side of music and of the philosophy of life than he
could have done in ten years of insulated study.

A vein of luck which they struck in Rouen and Dieppe emboldened them
to turn eastward, with comfortably full pockets, and try the Dauphine
and High Savoy. At Grenoble they had a frost and a heavy loss, but at
the sleepy Baths of Uriage they made a week of good harvest with
afternoon recitals. Chambrey did well for them, and Annecy even
better, so that, in spite of the indifference of Aix, they reached
Geneva in funds. Then they played their way around the Lake of Geneva,
and up into the Rhone Valley, and so over to the Italian lakes with
the autumn.

Here, at Pallanza, in a garden overhanging the Lago Maggiore where the
Borromean Isles sleep in their swan-like beauty on the blue-green
waves, they faced the question of turning homeward or going on to the
south for a winter tour. As they sat around the little iron table,
which held a savoury Spanish omelette a