“Nothing,” said Fear—“you have nothing to sell. Nobody wants you—nobody will care if you starve.” “Go away,” said Wynne. “I tell you I am wanted. I say I shan’t starve.” “Little idiot! What have you learnt to do but sneer at the real worker? There is no market price for sneers. Sneerers starve—starve! Who are you to laugh at the honest people of the world?” “I didn’t laugh. I only pitied.” “How dared you pity—you, who have achieved nothing? Even that small errand boy yonder is a worthier citizen than you—he at least earns his ten francs a week. What have you earned? Only the wage-slave deserves to be a freeman. What is the value of all this trash of art and æsthetics? These are only accessories of life—life itself must be learnt before you can deal in these.” “But I don’t want to be a wage-slave. I want to be a king.” “Kingdoms are not won by desire. You must be a subject first.” “I will be a king—a ruler.” “A beggar in a week. Come off the heights, little idiot; come down into the plains and lay a road.” Wynne stopped suddenly in the great quadrangle of the Louvre. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be content with small beginnings, but show me the way to find them.” And looking across the cobbled yard he saw three people. They were quite ordinary, and obviously English. There was a middle-aged man with a disposition toward side-whiskers. He carried an umbrella, and wore a severe bowler hat. His clothes spoke of prosperity coupled with a due regard for quiet colours. By his side walked a stout lady, in a tailor-made dress of suburban cut. Upon her head reposed an example of Paris millinery, and consciousness of its beauty gave her face an added tendency to perspire. It was a new hat, and did not seem to have sympathetic relations with her boots. People who go abroad for the first time are apt to overestimate the probable amount of wear their shoe-leather is likely to incur, and guard against walking barefoot by donning boots whose sturdiness would defeat the depredations of a Matterhorn climb. By the lady’s side was a youth—a very unprepossessing youth too. His face was blotchy, almost as blotchy as his tie. His waistcoat was double-breasted and of a violent grey. He carried a vulgar little cane in his yellow-gloved hand. That the trio were strangers to the city was indisputably betrayed by the consciousness of their manner and the elaborate precautions they were at to look at everything. The elder man drew attention to a sewer grating in the middle of the quadrangle, and pointed with his umbrella at the pigeons. Presently they came to a halt, and produced a Baedeker, which provided them with small enlightenment. “You are supposed to know French,” Wynne heard the elder man say, “then why not ask some one how we get into the place.” “I can’t,” replied the son. “Well, all I can say is it seems a very funny thing.”