How heavy the smoke was! Gethryn could hardly breathe—hardly see. He walked away and out into the street. The city was only half awake even yet. After, as it seemed, a long time, he found himself looking at a clock which said a quarter past ten. The winter sunshine slanted now on roof and pane, flooding the western side of the shabby boulevard, dappling the snow with yellow patches. He had stopped in the chilly shadow of a gateway and was looking vacantly about. He saw the sunshine across the street and shivered where he was, and yet he did not leave the shadow. He stood and watched the sparrows taking bold little baths in the puddles of melted snow water. They seemed to enjoy the sunshine, but it was cold in the shade, cold and damp—and the air was hard to breathe. A policeman sauntered by and eyed him curiously. Rex’s face was haggard and pinched. Why had he stood there in the cold for half an hour, without ever changing his weight from one foot to the other? The policeman spoke at last, civilly: “Monsieur!” Gethryn turned his head. “Is it that Monsieur seeks the train?” he asked, saluting. Rex looked up. He had wandered back to the station. He lifted his hat and answered with the politeness dear to French officials. “Merci, Monsieur!” It made him cough to speak, and he moved on slowly. Gethryn would not go home yet. He wanted to be where there was plenty of cool air, and yet he shivered. He drew a deep breath which ended in a pain. How cold the air must be—to pain the chest like that! And yet, there were women wheeling handcarts full of yellow crocus buds about. He stopped and bought some for Yvonne. “She will like them,” he thought. “Ah!”—he turned away, leaving flowers and money. The old flower-woman crossed herself. No—he would not go home just yet. The sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the Square. There was a crowd on the Pont au Change. He did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. He stopped and looked over too. The sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. Some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. Another boat followed close. A voice close by Gethryn cried, angrily: “Dieu! who are you shoving?” Rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, “Vive le cadavre!” “Chut!” said another voice. “Vive la Mort! Vive la Morgue!” screamed the wretched little creature. A policeman boxed his ears and pulled him back. The crowd laughed. The voice that had cried, “Chut!” said lower, “What a little devil, that Rigaud!” Rex moved slowly on.