(_While they talk, a fiacre, disentangling itself from the traffic of the main thoroughfare, draws up at the newspaper-kiosk on the further side of the street, and discharges its occupants: one small, alert, and obviously a Frenchman; the other large and sedate, moving with a ponderous suavity, which gives him an air of importance, almost of dignity. But though he has still a presence, its magnificence has departed. Threading his way indolently across the traffic, his eye adventures toward the waiting group. Met by the studied cordiality of their greetings, his face brightens._) R.R. Oscar, L.H. thinks you are late. O.W. Thought I was going to be late, you mean, my dear Robbie. If I were, what matter? What are two minutes in three years of disintegrated lifetime? It is almost three years, is it not, since we missed seeing each other? (_This studied mention of a tragic lapse of time is not quite as happy as it would like to be, being too deliberate an understatement. The tactful “Robbie” hastens to restore the triviality suitable to the occasion._) R.R. Oscar, when did you learn to cross streets? I have just seen you do it for the first time. In London you used to take a cab. O.W. No, Robbie, the cab used to take me. But here the French streets are so polite; one gets to the right side of them without knowing it. (_He turns to L.H._) How delightfully English of you to think that I was going to be late! L.H. I thought you might have done as I am always doing—gone to the wrong place, or lost your way. O.W. But that is impossible! In Paris one can lose one’s time most delightfully; but one can never lose one’s way. H.A. With the Eiffel Tower as a guide, you mean? O.W. Yes. Turn your back to that—you have all Paris before you. Look at it—Paris vanishes. R.R. You might write a story about that, Oscar. O.W. In natural history, Robbie, it has already been done. Travellers in South America tell of a bird which, if seen by you unawares, flies to hide itself. But if it has seen you first, then—by keeping its eye on you—it imagines that it remains invisible, and nothing will induce it to retreat. The bird-trappers catch it quite easily merely by advancing backwards. Now that, surely, is true philosophy. The bird, having once made you the object of its contemplation, has every right to think (as Bishop Berkeley did, I believe) that you have no independent existence. You are what you are—the bird says, and the Bishop says—merely because they have made you a subject of thought; if they did not think of you, you would not exist. And who knows?—they may be right. For, try as we may, we cannot get behind the appearance of things to the reality. And the terrible reason may be that there is no reality in things apart from their appearances. H.D. You English are always talking what you think is philosophy, when we should only call it theology.