He was not alarmed at the prospect—and, indeed, he regarded it with a queer sense of excitement. By some twist of imagination he conceived that an adventurous credit was reflected upon himself by the very emptiness of his pockets. Tradition showed that most of the world’s great artists had passed through straitened circumstances, wherefore it was only right and proper he should do otherwise. Certainly there was no very manifest advantage in starving, but it would be pleasant to reflect that one _had_ starved. Almost he wished he could banish the still haunting flavour of the chocolate he had drunk at his _petit déjeuner_, and feel the pangs of hunger tormenting his vitals. He consoled himself with the thought that these would occur soon enough. In the meantime it would be well to consider what line of action he proposed to take. The impulse to do a sketch and carry it to market he dismissed at once. The schools had taught him that whatever virtues his artistry might possess, they were not of a saleable kind. It was therefore folly to waste his money in buying a good canvas which would undoubtedly be spoilt. “No good,” he argued. “No good at all. I must do something that I can do.” On the embankment he was accosted by the keeper of a bookstall which of late he had patronized freely. “I have here a copy of the verses of Sully Prudhomme,” said the man, “and the price is but one franc. Such a chance will scarcely arrive again.” It was sheer bravado, but Wynne bought the little volume without so much as an attempt to beat down the price. He felt no end of a fine fellow as he pocketed it and strolled away. Yet, curiously enough, he had not gone far before a panic seized him and he longed to rush back and beg for his money to be returned. “That’s silly,” he told himself—“cowardly.” His hand stole to his pocket and took comfort from the feel of the fifty centime piece which remained. “If I were really a man I’d spend that too.” And spend it he did, but on a long loaf of stale bread which he brought back with him to the hotel. He found Benoit at his interminable occupation of polishing the bedroom floor. This duty was performed by means of a flat brush strapped to the sole of the boot. The excellent fellow, while so employed, resembled a chicken scratching in straw for oats. Polishing had become a second nature to Benoit. He polished while he made beds, he polished while he emptied slops, he polished while he indulged in his not infrequent spells of religious rumination. It was in this latter state of mind Wynne found him, and for want of a better confidant explained his unfortunate predicament. “Benoit,” he said, “I am ruined—utterly ruined and penniless.” “That,” replied the garçon, “is a pity, since I had had in mind that on the morrow you would be giving me five francs.” It is the custom to give five francs to the garçon at the beginning of each month. “Your chances of getting it, Benoit, are very remote.”