them so--conditions over which their temperaments, understandings and wills had little or no control. He is an amazingly tolerant man--one of the most tolerant I have ever known, and kindly in his manner and intention. Nevertheless, he has an innate horror of the purely physical when it descends to inartistic brutality. There is much of that in Paris; and these guides advertise it; but it is filth especially arranged for the stranger. I fancy the average Parisian knows nothing about it; and if he does, he has a profound contempt for it. So has the well-intentioned stranger, but there is always an audience for this sort of thing. So when this guide approached us with the proposition to show us a selected line of vice, Barfleur took him genially in hand. “Stop a moment, now,” he said, with his high hat on the back of his head, his fur coat expansively open, and his monocled eye fixing the intruder with an inquiring gaze, “tell me one thing--have you a mother?” The small Jew who was the industrious salesman for this particular type of ware looked his astonishment. They are used to all sorts of set-backs--these particular guides--for they encounter all sorts of people, severely moral and the reverse; and I fancy on occasion they would be soundly trounced if it were not for the police who stand in with them and receive a modicum for their protection. They certainly learn to understand something of the type of man who will listen to their proposition; for I have never seen them more than ignored and I have frequently seen them talked to in an off-hand way, though I was pleased to note that their customers were few. This particular little Jew had a quizzical, screwed-up expression on his face, and did not care to answer the question at first; but resumed his announcement of his various delights and the price it would all cost. “Wait, wait, wait,” insisted Barfleur, “answer my question. Have you a mother?” “What has that got to do with it?” asked the guide. “Of course I have a mother.” “Where is she?” demanded Barfleur authoritatively. “She’s at home,” replied the guide, with an air of mingled astonishment, irritation and a desire not to lose a customer. “Does she know that you are out here on the streets of Paris doing what you are doing to-night?” he continued with a very noble air. The man swore under his breath. “Answer me,” persisted Barfleur, still fixing him solemnly through his monocle. “Does she?” “Why, no, of course she doesn’t,” replied the Jew sheepishly. “Would you want her to know?” This in sepulchral tones. “No, I don’t think so.” “Have you a sister?” “Yes.” “Would you want her to know?” “I don’t know,” replied the guide defiantly. “She might know anyhow.” “Tell me truly, if she did not know, would you want her to know?”