To his brother waiters Wynne was ever remote and a shade cynical. He laughed at, but never with them, and affected a tolerant attitude which they found far from endearing. Occasionally one of the sturdier would attempt to bully him, but in this would seldom prosper. A Frenchman, as a rule, bullies with his tongue rather than his hands, and Wynne’s tongue was ever ready with a lightning counterstroke. These passages were in some respects a repetition of the old schoolday affairs, and since he never forgot a lesson he was well armed to defend himself. And so the weeks dragged into months and the debt gradually diminished. X One bright spring morning, some two years after his arrival in Paris, Wynne received a surprise. A broad-shouldered figure came under the shadow of the awning and seated himself at one of the small round tables. “It’s Uncle Clem!” gasped Wynne to himself. He straightened his waistcoat and went outside. “M’sieur!” he said. “Un bock,” came the reply. Unrecognized, Wynne retired and returned a moment later with a glass tankard which he set upon the table. “Beau temps, m’sieur!” “Ah, oui!” “Just such another day as the one we spent in Richmond Park together.” The big Englishman turned his head and raised his eyes sharply. “Good Gad! It’s the Seeker!” he exclaimed. His hand shot out, enveloped Wynne’s, and wrung it furiously. “Sit down! What the devil are you up to?” “Waiting,” Wynne smiled; “but I haven’t given up hope.” “Splendid—and this is fine”—he tweaked the apron. “Serious?” “Oh, very.” “A man now, eh?” “Something of the kind.” “Fine! though why the hell you couldn’t let us know what had become of you—” “Touch of pride, Uncle Clem. I neither wanted to please my people nor disappoint you.” “Ah, now, now, now! None of that—none of it. They wouldn’t gloat and I might have helped.” Wynne seated himself thoughtfully. “Yes, I think that’s true; but I wonder if you believe me when I say that never once has it crossed my mind as a way out of the difficulty. When I left home I left finally, not experimentally. If my father were to see me as I am now he would say I had slipped down hill, but I haven’t—I haven’t. Downhill I may have gone with a bit of rush, but I’m gathering impetus all the time, getting up weigh for the climb ahead. You see that, don’t you? This is all to the good, isn’t it?” There was an honest, genuine sincerity in the way he spoke. “Every time. All to the good. I should say it is. Hullo! who the devil is this?” “This” was M. le Patron, highly incensed at the sight of one of his waiters sitting at a table. “Ça fait rien,” began Uncle Clem. Then to Wynne, “Oh, you tell him it’s all right; tell him I’m your uncle—say you’re coming out for the afternoon. Here’s ten francs. Get your hat, and shove that damned dicky in your pocket. Tell the old fool he’s a good fellah and to go to the devil.”