form, in his case, of nasally
humming that amorous refrain.

But it very often happened that he was dumb, poor fellow--no supper,
no song!

Lirieux conceived such a liking for Barty that he insisted on taking
him into his studio as a pupil-assistant, and setting him to draw
things under his own eye; and Barty would fill Bonzig's French sea
pieces with Whitby fishermen, and Bonzig got to sing "Mon Aldegonde"
much oftener than before.

And chumming with these two delightful men, Barty grew to know a
clean, quiet happiness which more than made up for lost past
splendors and dissipations and gay dishonor. He wasn't even funny;
they wouldn't have understood it. Well-bred Frenchmen don't
understand English fun--not even in the quartier latin, as a general
rule. Not that it's too subtle for them; _that's_ not why!

Thus pleasantly August wore itself away, Bonzig and Barty nearly
always dining together for about a franc apiece, including the
waiter, and not badly. Bonzig knew all the cheap eating-houses in
Paris, and what each was specially renowned for--"bonne friture,"
"fricassee de lapin," "pommes sautees," "soupe aux choux," etc.,
etc.

Then, after dinner, a long walk and talk and cigarettes--or they
would look in at a cafe chantant, a bal de barriere, the gallery of
a cheap theatre--then a bock outside a cafe--et bonsoir la
compagnie!

On September the 1st, Lirieux and his brother went to see their
people in the south, leaving the studio to Bonzig and Barty, who
made the most of it, though greatly missing the genial young
painter, both as a companion and a master and guide.

One beautiful morning Bonzig called for Barty at his cremerie, and
proposed they should go by train to some village near Paris and
spend a happy day in the country, lunching on bread and wine and
sugar at some little roadside inn. Bonzig made a great deal of this
lunch. It had evidently preoccupied him.

Barty was only too delighted. They went on the imperiale of the
Versailles train and got out at Ville d'Avray, and found the kind of
little pothouse they wanted. And Barty had to admit that no better
lunch for the price could be than "small blue wine" sweetened with
sugar, and a hunch of bread sopped in it.

Then they had a long walk in pretty woods and meadows, sketching by
the way, chatting to laborers and soldiers and farm-people, smoking
endless cigarettes of caporal; and finally they got back to Paris
the way they came--so hungry tha