‘I am no exception to the rule,’ answered Gavrolles. ‘My whole life has been _une bonne fortune!_ But look you, as I say, I am an artiste--in affairs of gallantry as in all others. I do not suffer these things to cloud the equanimity of my artiste’s soul. When I have plucked a rose--observe! I smell it; I wear it a little while; then I take it from my button-hole and throw it away. You understand?’ ‘I think so,’ said Sutherland, rising to his feet. ‘Pray does it ever occur to you what becomes of the rose afterwards! If it is trampled underfoot, who is responsible?’ ‘Pardon me, that is the rose’s affair, not mine. _Au reste_, roses must bloom and fade; Art, Art--for which I live--is imperishable and divine.’ It was hard to say whether he was jesting or in earnest, for his manner was peculiar, a combination of mock-enthusiasm and flippant audacity. But despite his appearance of _sang-froid_, something in the face and manner of Sutherland thrilled him, and reminded him of an unpleasant meeting many years before. He bowed profoundly as Sutherland prepared to go, and held out his hand--which the other did not seem to notice. ‘_Au revoir!_‘he said gaily; ‘and _au revoir_, Monsieur Crieff. My friend Ponto will convert you presently; ah, yes!’ In another minute Crieff and Sutherland were in the street. The latter was very pale, and trembled violently. ‘My dear Sutherland, what is the matter?’ ‘Nothing; only that man’s face and his talk have upset me. I could have strangled him.’ ‘What an excitable fellow you are!’ said Crieff, taking his arm. ‘Upon my life, you take these things far too seriously. The other day you were seriously angry with Lagardère, and here you are actually distressing yourself over the prattle of a child like Gavrolles.’ ‘You do not understand. I know the man, and have reason to remember him.’ ‘That alters the case. Where did you meet?’ ‘In France--some years ago.’ Crieff listened for further explanations, but none came. Pressed to say more, Sutherland shook his head, and relapsed into silence; so the little journalist proceeded to give his muscular friend a lesson in social philosophy. ‘You are too thoroughly in earnest, and in company your earnestness makes other people uncomfortable. Life would be impossible if every bit of idle chit-chat or _ad captandum_ argument were taken _au sérieux_. Looked at in the proper light, Gavrolles is charming--a droll creature with a touch of genius. To you he is merely a dissolute young man, who reads improper books.’ ‘To me,’ returned Sutherland, fiercely, ‘he is a thorough scoundrel, whom I should like to choke.’ Crieff soon perceived that remonstrance was useless, and, mentally determining not to introduce his companion to any more choice spirits, he changed the subject. The pair soon parted, Crieff to stroll down to the gallery of the House of Commons, Sutherland to pace the solitary streets, full of the troubled recollections awakened by that chance encounter. *****