His frail body swayed a little as he made his way down the length of the shop. Commanding all his strength of will, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his trembling knees, but not soon enough to delude the observing Mr. Bramble, who hurried after him, peering anxiously through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "It is just like you foreigners," he said, overtaking the violinist near the door, and speaking with some energy. "Just like you, I say, to forget to eat breakfast when you are excited. You did not have a bite of breakfast, now did you? Up and out, all excited and eager, forgetting everything but--I say, Mirabeau, lend a hand! He is ready to drop. God bless my soul! Brace up, your highness,--I should say old chap--brace up! Damme, sir, what possessed you to refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? And it was the third time within the week. Answer me that, sir!" De Bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before the two old men. They had led him to a chair at the back of the shop. Both were regarding him with justifiable severity. He smiled wanly as he passed his hand over his moist, pallid brow. "You are poor men. Why,--why should I become a charge upon you?" "Mon dieu!" sputtered M. Mirabeau, lifting his arms on high and shaking his head in absolute despair,--despair, you may be sure, over a most unaccountable and never-to-be-forgotten moment in which he found himself utterly and hopelessly without words. Mr. Bramble suddenly rammed a hand down into the pocket of his ancient smoking-coat, and fished out a huge, red, glistening apple. "Here! Eat this!" De Bosky shook his head. His smile broadened. "No, thank you. I--I do not like apples." The bookseller was aghast. Moreover, pity and alarm rendered him singularly inept in the choice of a reply to this definite statement. "Take it home to the children," he pleaded, with the best intention in the world. By this time, M. Mirabeau had found his tongue. He took the situation in hand. With tact and an infinite understanding, he astonished the matter-of-fact Mr. Bramble by appearing to find something amusing in the plight of their friend. He made light of the whole affair. Mr. Bramble, who could see no farther than the fact that the poor fellow was starving, was shocked. It certainly wasn't a thing one should treat as a joke,--and here was the old simpleton chuckling and grinning like a lunatic when he should be-- Lunatic! Mr. Bramble suddenly went cold to the soles of his feet. A horrified look came into his eyes. Could it be possible that something had snapped in the old Frenchman's--but M. Mirabeau was now addressing him instead of the smiling de Bosky. "Come, come!" he was shouting merrily. "We're not following de Bosky to the grave. He is not even having a funeral. Cheer up! Mon dieu, such a face!" Mr. Bramble grew rosy. "Blooming rubbish," he snorted, still a trifle apprehensive.