hen they were alone, he made up for all his
brutality by a certain tenderness which he was at great pains to
dissemble. He had but one phrase of commendation, and it harped back and
reminded them both of Leighton. When Le Brux was well pleased with
Lewis, he would say, "My son, I shall yet create thee."

It could not be said that master and pupil lived together. Lewis had a
room down the hall and the freedom of the great atelier, but he never
ate with Le Brux and never accompanied him on his rare outings. From the
very first day he had learned that he must fend for himself.

Curiosity in all that was new about him sustained the boy for a few
days, but as the fear of getting lost restricted him to the immediate
neighborhood of his abode,--a neighborhood where the sign "On parle
anglais" never appeared in the shop windows, and where a restaurateur
would not deign to speak English even if he knew it,--he gradually
became a prey to the most terrible of all lonelinesses--the loneliness
of an outsider in a vast, gay city.

At first he did not dare go into a restaurant. When hunger forced him,
he would enter a _patisserie_, point at one thing and another, take
without question the change that was handed him, and return to his room
to eat. The neighborhood, however, was blessed with a series of
second-hand book-shops. One day his eyes fell on an English-French
phrase-book. He bought it. He learned the meaning of the cabalistic
sign, "Table d'hote. Diner, 2f." He began to dine out.

In those lonely initiative weeks Lewis's mind sought out Nadir and dwelt
on it. He counted the months he had been away, and was astounded by
their number. Never had time seemed so long and so short. He longed to
talk to Natalie, to tell her the dream that had seized upon him and
gradually become real. At the little book-shop he bought ink, paper, and
pen, and began to write.

It was an enormous letter, for one talked easily to Natalie, even on
paper. At the end he begged her to write to him, to tell him all that
had happened at Nadir, if, indeed, anything beyond her marriage had
occurred to mark the passing months. What about the goats? A whole
string of questions about the goats followed, and then, again, was she
really married? Was she happy?

The intricacies of getting that letter weighed, properly stamped, and
posted were too much for Lewis. He sought aid not from Le Brux, but from
Cellette. It took him a long time to explain what he wanted