He came closer to Moisse and stood trembling. “Asking for crumbs,” went on Moisse with a deepening frown, “cursed at night when alone by memories that will not die. Eh?” He looked suddenly into the faded eyes and smiled. The little old man nodded his head vigorously. He caught his breath and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his cheeks wrinkled as if he were about to cry. His breath struck the young dramatist and he averted his nose. “Strange,” resumed he, “now you have a quarter and I have a quarter and still we remain so different. Isn’t it strange, old fellow? Yet it is the inevitable inequality of men that makes us brothers.” The beggar was about to speak. Moisse paused and looked with interest at the round face, the quivering nostrils and the lips that were twitching into speech. “No one has talked to me like you,” he said, “no one.” And he caught his breath and stared with a strange expression at his benefactor. He bit at a finger nail and lowered his head. He seemed suddenly in the throes of a great mental struggle for his face had become earnest. It endured for a moment and then he looked at Moisse. “You—you want me to come along with you,” he said and he scratched at the back of his ear. “I’ll come along if you want me to,” he repeated. “Come along? Where?” Moisse asked, his eyes awakening. “Oh, anyplace,” said the little old man. “I ain’t particular, if you ain’t.” He was breathing quickly and he reached for the palm of his patron. A deep light had come into his face. His faded eyes had grown stronger. Their quizzical look was gone and they were burning in their wet depths. They looked now with a maternal intensity into the eyes of Moisse and their smile staggered the sophistication of the young dramatist. The little old man continued to breathe hard until he began to quiver. He suddenly assumed command. “Come,” he said, seizing Moisse by the palm and squeezing it. “I know a place we can go and get a room cheap and where we won’t be disturbed. It ain’t so nice a place but come.” He squeezed the palm he held for the second time. The deep light that had come into his little dog’s face softened and two tears rolled again out of his eyes. He caught his breath in a sob. “I—I don’t drink,” he said; “I’m hungry—but I can wait ... until we get through.” He was beaming coquettishly through his tears and fondling the young dramatist’s hand. “I can wait,” he repeated, raising his blue lips toward Moisse, his face transfigured and glowing pink. “I see,” said Moisse, withdrawing his hand with an involuntary shudder. He was about to say something but he turned, again involuntarily, and hurried away, breaking into a run when he found himself in the rain. The little old man’s face drooped. He walked slowly staring after him. He stood bareheaded while the rain bombarded his drenched figure and he looked at the young dramatist running.