“They say it’s a bad year—the blockheads in the newspapers,” Mr. Schinkel went on, addressing himself to the company at large. “They say that on purpose—to convey the impression that there are such things as good years. I ask the company, has any gentleman present ever happened to notice that article? The good year’s yet to come: it might begin to-night, if we like: it all depends on our being able to be serious for a few hours. But that’s too much to expect. Mr. Muniment’s very serious; he looks as if he was waiting for the signal, but he doesn’t speak—he never speaks if I want particularly to hear him. He only deliberates very deeply—oh I’m sure. But it’s almost as bad to think without speaking as to speak without thinking.” Hyacinth always admired the cool, easy way in which Muniment comported himself when the attention of the public was directed at him. These manifestations of curiosity or of hostility would have put him out immensely himself. When a lot of people, especially the kind of people collected at the “Sun and Moon,” looked at him or listened to him all at once, he always blushed and stammered, feeling that if he couldn’t have a million of spectators (which would have been inspiring) he should prefer to have but two or three; there was something rather awful in twenty. Muniment smiled an instant good-humouredly; then after a moment’s hesitation, looking across at the German and the German only, as if his remark were worth noticing but it didn’t matter if the others didn’t understand the reply, he said simply: “Hoffendahl’s in London.” “Hoffendahl? _Gott in Himmel!_” the cabinet-maker exclaimed, taking the pipe out of his mouth. And the two men exchanged a longish glance. Then Mr. Schinkel remarked: “That surprises me, _sehr_. Are you very sure?” Muniment continued for a little to look at him. “If I keep quiet half an hour, with so many valuable suggestions flying all round me, you think I say too little. Then if I open my head to give out three words you appear to think I say too much.” “Ah no, on the contrary—I want you to say three more. If you tell me you’ve seen him I shall be perfectly satisfied.” “Upon my word I should hope so! Do you think he’s the kind of bloke a fellow says he has seen?” “Yes, when he hasn’t!” said Eustache Poupin, who had been listening. Every one was listening now. “It depends on the fellow he says it to. Not even here?” the German asked. “Oh here!” Paul Muniment exclaimed in a peculiar tone while he resumed his muffled whistle again. “Take care—take care; you’ll make me think you haven’t!” cried Poupin with his excited expression. “That’s just what I want,” said Muniment. “_Nun_, I understand,” the cabinet-maker remarked, restoring his pipe to his lips after an interval almost as momentous as the stoppage of a steamer in mid-ocean. “_’Ere_, ’ere?” repeated the small shoemaker indignantly. “I daresay it’s as good as the place he came from. He might look in and see what he thinks of it.”