“My hat has just blown off into the Seine,” he explained to the first clerk in sight. “Show me the best silk hat you have in the shop; and quickly, or I shall be late for my appointment.” The clerk, after inquiring the head size of this elegant, bareheaded youth, produced a counterpart of the hat in the window. Ventrillon put the hat on his head and adjusted it before a mirror. “The fit is perfect,” he said, “though I had hoped for a better quality. But--I have no time to waste. You will place it on my account.” He turned to walk out of the shop. The clerk came hurriedly, but politely, from behind the counter, and modestly touched Ventrillon’s elbow. “Then monsieur has an account here?” he inquired. “Of course,” said Ventrillon, impatiently, and with his fingertips dusted the sleeve the clerk had touched. “And have I not told you that I have an important appointment?” The clerk adroitly interposed himself between Ventrillon and the door. “But I do not know the name of monsieur,” he persisted, always polite. “You do not know who I am!” cried Ventrillon, as if the statement were proof positive of an utter imbecility he had already suspected. “I am afraid not, sir,” faltered the clerk. Then Ventrillon’s voice, a huge baritone absolutely astounding from a throat so young, roared out to its full, thundering in the clerk’s ears and frightening him half out of his wits: “_I am Odillon Ventrillon_, name of God!” shouted Ventrillon. The clerk, who for some reason he has never fully understood was under the impression that this was the family name of the Prince of Monaco or perhaps the King of Spain, and murmured, “Oh, I demand a thousand pardons, sir,” has never been able to explain this affair to the complete satisfaction of the proprietor. For, before the clerk could recover, Ventrillon had left the shop and, having dashed impudently past the ticket puncher, was well on his way in the Métro, wearing the hat of eight reflections. In the dark tunnel he could see his image facing him in the windows of the lighted car. “Undoubtedly,” reflected Ventrillon, adjusting his lapels, “it is the final touch which is vital.” ANOTHER REFLECTION When a handsome young man commits a murder, forges a check, or sets his heart upon a hat of eight reflections, one may well say to oneself, “It is a woman.” And a woman it was; but it was Mme. Sutrin. A work of art, upon obtaining a public success, however slight, becomes forthwith an irresistible magnet to its maker. Though every day had seen Ventrillon setting out to walk in the opposite direction, every day had found him at last somewhere in the neighbourhood of his prize-winning canvas in the Grand Palais.