“Monsieur, _mon ami_,” cried St Denys, on a wavering, jovial key, “you will oblige me by indulging, while here, your easiest caprices. Come and go as you will; I desire to put no restraint on you. You shall pay only for your clean linen, and for your food and drink. The first two you will find at least wholesome. For the last, behold the proof! If you want luxury, you must seek elsewhere. My socialism is eminently practical. The free expression of nature--that is the creed we seek to give effect to in this little corner of the world. But we are no Sybarites.” “Nor I,” said Ned; “but, for you--you are a man of strong convictions, monsieur?” St Denys laughed, sprawling back in his chair, and waved his hand significantly to the empty walls. “Just so,” said Ned. “But I am a very _chiffonnier_ for raking in the dust for hidden motives.” The Frenchman cocked a sleepy lid, scrutinising his guest with a little arrogance of humour. “They are here, no doubt, these motives,” said he. “Perhaps I am astute, perhaps I have the seer’s eye. If I foretold you a deluge, what would you do?” “Invest my money in an ark.” “A floating capital, to be sure. But you could never realise on it if you weathered the storm.” “And you, monsieur?” “And I, monsieur?--I should endeavour, very likely, to extract the essence of twenty years from one; I should at least spare no expense to that end. Were I foredoomed to founder, I would make myself a wreck that I might sink the more easily.” He came scrambling to his feet. “Do you like music?” he cried. “I will canvass you in the prophetic vein. I see the rising of the waters.” He was looking about vaguely as he spoke. “What the devil is become of it?” he muttered. “Are you hunting for your guitar? You will find it flat beyond tuning, I am afraid.” “How, do you say?” “M. de St Denys, you fell asleep, literally, on it last night in the ‘Landlust.’” “‘Landlust!’ Oh! _Dieu du ciel_! I am beginning to remember.” “Why,” he chuckled, with hazy inspiration, “your veritable figure, monsieur, stands out of the fog.” “Indeed, it was thick enough to stand on.” “And little Boppard, and the gross old Lambertine, who is father to our village Aspasia, the fat old man. But I must introduce you to Théroigne Lambertine, monsieur, to add one beat a minute to your politic pulses.” “Indeed, I think I have already introduced myself.” “The deuce you have!” “And is she your Aspasia? And who is her Pericles?” “Harkee, monsieur!” said St Denys, with a fall to particular gravity, “that will never do.” Then he broke into a great laugh.