scorn, and of wild sympathy for a world in which love and not law, truth and not legal fiction, were masters of human relations. Some little time after Reuben's visit to him he one day told Barbier the fact of his French descent. Barbier declared that he had always known it, had always realised something in David distinct from the sluggish huckstering English temper. Why, David's mother was from the south of France; his own family came from Carcassonne. No doubt the rich Gascon blood ran in both their veins. _Salut au compatriole!_ Thenceforward there was a greater solidarity between the two than ever. Barbier fell into an incessant gossip of Paris--the Paris of Louis Philippe--reviving memories and ways of speech which had been long dead in him, and leaving on David's mind the impression of a place where life was from morning till night amusement, exhilaration, and seduction; where, under the bright smokeless sky, and amid the stateliest streets and public buildings in Europe, men were always witty and women always attractive. Meanwhile the course of business during the spring months and the rise of his trade in foreign books rapidly brought the scheme of a visit to France, which had been at first a mere dream and fancy, within the region of practical possibility, and even advantage, for the young bookseller. Two things he was set on. If he went he was determined to go under such conditions as would enable him to see French life--especially French artistic and student life--from the inside. And he saw with some clearness that he would have to take his sister with him. Against the latter notion Barbier protested vehemently. 'What do you want to tie yourself to a petticoat for? If you take the girl you will have to look after her. Paris, my boy, let me inform you, is not the best place in the world for _la jeune personne;_ and the Paris _rapin_ may be an amusing scoundrel, but don't trust him with young women if you can help it. Leave Mademoiselle Louie at home, and let her mind the shop. Get Mademoiselle Dora or some one to stay with her, or send her to Mademoiselle Dora.' So said the Frenchman with sharp dictatorial emphasis. What a preposterous suggestion! 'I can't stop her coming,' said David, quietly--'if she wants to come--and she'll be sure to want. Besides, I'll not leave her alone at home, and she'll not let me send her anywhere--you may be sure of that.' The Frenchman stared and stormed. David fell silent. Louie was what she was, and it was no use discussing her. At last Barbier, being after all tolerably well acquainted with the lad's relations to his sister, came to a sudden end of his rhetoric, and began to think out something practicable.