“He saved himself for the orgy,” cried the stranger. “He was moderate only that he might taste the full of enjoyment. I go with you there.” “Not with me, indeed.” “No, of course. There are blind-worms amongst men. For me I swear that human life has an infinite capacity for pleasure.” He took another great pull at his pot and laughed foolishly. His face was ruddy and his eyes glazed with drink. “You were singing when I came in,” said Ned. “Don’t let me interrupt you.” The student sniggered, the _cuisinière_ sniggered, the farmer waved a tolerant hand. “You see?” said the musician. “We make no business here of any man’s convenience but our own. I shall sing if I want to.” He twitched the strings with some loose defiance, and swerved into a little vacant amorous song. “Does that please you?” he asked at the finish. “It neither pleases nor disgusts me,” said Ned. “It is simply not worth considering.” “You must not say that,” said the round-faced student. Mr Murk turned upon him gravely. “I am a foreigner, sir, as you see,” said he. “I come amongst you to enlarge my experience and to correct a certain insular habit of prejudice. To this end I use a sketch-book, and sometimes I paint portraits. I shall have the honour of depicting you as a starling.” “Oh, eh!” said the student. “That is funny. And why?” “It feeds on the leavings of my lord the rook,” said Ned. The farmer chuckled heartily, and the musician burst into a wobble of laughter. “I am the rook!” he cried--“I am milord the rook! You are a man of penetration, monsieur, and I take you to my heart.” He endeavoured to do so literally, and fell flat off the table on the top of his guitar, which he smashed to pieces. And then he composed himself to slumber on the floor, and in a minute was snoring. “He acts up to his creed,” said the farmer, in a tone of unruffled admiration. “You must not misjudge him, monsieur the artist. M. de St Denys is generous to a fault.” “St Denys! Is that M. de St Denys?” The other swang his large head. “It is so. His reputation extends itself, it would appear. He makes himself a name beyond Méricourt for the most liberal principles.” “Liberal to excess, indeed.” The student ventured again. “He illustrates what he professes.” “An infinite capacity for piggishness?” “No, monsieur; but to extend the prerogatives of pleasure; to set the example of a cultivated licence that the _canaille_ may learn to elevate itself to the higher hedonism.” Ned had nothing to say to this boozy ethology. The other two chorused crapulous praise of the fallen musician. “He is the soul of honour,” said the farmer, who seemed a man of simple ideas. “He devotes himself, his oratory, his purse, to the cause of intellectual emancipation,” cried the student. “And what does his father, M. de St Denys, say to all this?” asked Ned. Lambertine shook his perplexed head. The student humoured a little snigger of deprecation.