urse, and helped here and there by a shrewd and sympathetic question, Martin,

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the ingenuous, told his story, while Corinna, slightly bored, having heard most of

it already, occupied herself by drawing a villainous portrait of him on the t

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ablecloth. When he mentioned details unknown to her she paused in her task and rai

sed her eyes. Like her own, his autobiography was a catalogue of incompetence,

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but it held no record of frustrated ambitions—no record of any ambitious desire

Collect from /

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whatever. It shewed the tame ass’s unreflecting acquiescence in its lot of drudgery. There had been no passionate craving for things of delight. Why cry for the moon? With a salary of a hundred and thirty-five pounds a year out of which he must contribute to the support of his widowed mother, a man can purchase for himself but little splendour of existence, and Martin was not one of those to whom splendour comes unbought. He had lived, semi-co

ntent, in a fog splendour-obscuring, for the last ten years. But this evening the fog had lifted. The glamour of Paris, even the Pantheon and the Eiffel Tower sarcastically mentioned by Corinna, had helped to dispel it. So had Corinna’s sisterly interest in his dull affairs. And so, more than all, had helped the self-analysis formulated under the compelling power of the philanthropist with shiny coat-sleeves and frayed linen, at once priest, lawyer and physician who had pocketed his five francs fee. He talked long and earnestly; and the more he talked and the more minutely he revealed the aridity of his young life, the stronger gr

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