being one of themselves. He imposed himself by the eloquence of his assumption that if one were not in the beautiful supreme France one was nowhere worth speaking of, and ended by producing an impression that that country had a quite supernatural charm. Muniment had once said to Hyacinth that he was sure Poupin would be very sorry to be enabled to go home again (as he really 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 so suffered from it. “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’re 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 an untidy bandage round his neck, as if for a local ailment. “You remind us—that’s very well; but we shall forget it in half an hour. We’re not serious.” “_Pardon, pardon_; for myself I don’t admit that!” Poupin replied, striking the table with his finger-tips several times, very fast. “If I’m not serious I’m nothing.” “Oh no, you’re something,” said the German, smoking his monumental pipe with a contemplative air. “We’re all something, but I’m not sure it’s anything very useful.” “Well, things would be worse without us. I’d jolly rather be in here, in _this_ kind of muck, than outside,” remarked the fat man who understood dogs. “Certainly, it’s very pleasant, especially if you’ve your beer; but not so pleasant over there at the Docks, where fifty thousand people starve. It’s a very unpleasant night,” the cabinet-maker went on. “How can it be worse?” Eustache Poupin asked while he looked at the German as to make him responsible for the fat man’s reflexion. “It’s 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 grey-faced shoemaker demanded. “I daresay 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 a bloody rap what no man says!” the dog-fancier exclaimed, gazing straight before him.