very good-natured—appeared never to have made the subtle reflection, though they made many others, that there was a want of tact in his calling upon them to sympathise with him for being one of themselves. He imposed himself by the eloquence of his assumption that if one were not in the beautiful France one was nowhere worth speaking of, and ended by producing an impression that that country had an almost supernatural charm. Muniment had once said to Hyacinth that he was sure Poupin would be very sorry if he should be enabled to go home again (as he might, from one week to the other, the Republic being so indulgent and the amnesty to the Communards constantly extended), for over there he couldn’t be a refugee; and however this might be he certainly flourished a good deal in London on the basis of this very fact that he was miserable there. “Why do you tell us that, as if it was so very striking? Don’t we know it, and haven’t we known it always? But you are right; we behave as if we knew nothing at all,” said Mr Schinkel, the German cabinet-maker, who had originally introduced Captain Sholto to the ‘Sun and Moon’. He had a long, unhealthy, benevolent face and greasy hair, and constantly wore a kind of untidy bandage round his neck, as if for a local ailment. “You remind us—that is very well; but we shall forget it in half an hour. We are not serious.” “_Pardon, pardon;_ for myself, I do not admit that!” Poupin replied, striking the table with his finger-tips several times, very fast. “If I am not serious, I am nothing.” “Oh no, you are something,” said the German, smoking his monumental pipe with a contemplative air. “We are all something; but I am not sure it is anything very useful.” “Well, things would be worse without us. I’d rather be in here, in _this_ kind of muck, than outside,” remarked the fat man who understood dogs. “Certainly, it is very pleasant, especially if you have your beer; but not so pleasant in the east, where fifty thousand people starve. It is a very unpleasant night,” the cabinet-maker went on. “How can it be worse?” Eustache Poupin inquired, looking defiantly at the German, as if to make him responsible for the fat man’s reflection. “It is so bad that the imagination recoils, refuses.” “Oh, we don’t care for the imagination!” the fat man declared. “We want a compact body, in marching order.” “What do you call a compact body?” the little gray-faced shoemaker demanded. “I dare say you don’t mean your kind of body.” “Well, I know what I mean,” said the fat man, severely. “That’s a grand thing. Perhaps one of these days you’ll tell us.” “You’ll see it for yourself, perhaps, before that day comes,” the gentleman with the silver ring rejoined. “Perhaps when you do, you’ll remember.” “Well, you know, Schinkel says we don’t,” said the shoemaker, nodding at the cloud-compelling German. “I don’t care what no man says!” the dog-fancier exclaimed, gazing straight before him.