The man of God turned away, pale to the temples with offense--a high-bosomed matron opposite emitted a shocked “Oh!”--the faces of the surrounding listeners assumed expressions either dismayed or deprecating. Budding conversationalists were temporarily frost-bitten, and the watery helpings of fish were eaten in a constrained silence. But with the inevitable roast beef a Scot of unshakeable manner, decorated with a yellow forehead-lock as erect as a striking cobra, turned to follow up what he apparently conceived to be an opportunity for discussion. “I'm not so strongly partial to the States mysel', ye ken, but I'll confess it's a grand place to mak' money. Ye would be going there, perhaps, to improve your fortunes?” Byrd was silent. “Also,” continued the Scot, quite unrebuffed, “it would be interesting to know what exactly ye mean when ye call yoursel' a Bohemian. Would ye be referring to your tastes, now, or to your nationality?” His hand trembling with nervous temper, Byrd laid down his napkin, and rose with an attempt at dignity somewhat marred by the viselike clutch of the swivel chair upon his emerging legs. “My mother was a Bohemian, my father an American. Neither, happily, was Scotch,” said he, almost stammering in his attempt to control his extreme distaste of his surroundings--and hurried out of the saloon, leaving a table of dropped jaws behind him. “The young man is nairvous,” contentedly boomed the Scot. “I'm thinking he'll be feeling the sea already. What kind of a place would Bohemia, be, d'ye think, to have a mother from?” turning to the clergyman. “A place of evil life, seemingly,” answered that worthy in his high-pitched, carrying voice. “I shall certainly ask to have my seat changed. I cannot subject myself for the voyage to the neighborhood of a man of profane speech.” The table nodded approval. “A traitor to his country, too,” said a pursy little man opposite, snapping his jaws shut like a turtle. A bony New England spinster turned deprecating eyes to him. “My,” she whispered shrilly, “he was just terrible, wasn't he? But so handsome! I can't help but think it was more seasickness with him than an evil nature.” Meanwhile the subject of discussion, who would have writhed far more at the spinster's palliation of his offense than at the men's disdain, lay in his tiny cabin, a prey to an attack of that nervous misery which overtakes an artist out of his element as surely and speedily as air suffocates a fish.