“Oh, it’s no plot. I don’t think I care much for plots.” And with his mild, steady, light-blue English eye, M. Paul certainly had not much the appearance of a conspirator. “Isn’t it a new era?” asked Hyacinth, rather disappointed. “Well, I don’t know; it’s just a taking of a stand on two or three points.” “_Ah bien, voilà du propre_; between us we’ve thrown him into a fever!” cried Madame Poupin, who had put down her bowl on a table near her husband’s bed and was bending over him with her hand on his forehead. Her patient was flushed, he had closed his eyes, and it was evident there had been more than enough conversation. Madame Poupin announced as much, with the addition that if the young men wished to make acquaintance they must do it outside; their friend must be perfectly quiet. They accordingly withdrew with apologies and promises to return for further news on the morrow, and two minutes later Hyacinth found himself standing face to face with his companion on the pavement in front of M. Poupin’s residence, under a street-lamp which struggled ineffectually with the brown winter dusk. “Is that your name, M. Paul?” he asked as he looked up at him. “Oh bless you, no; that’s only her Frenchified way of putting it. My name _is_ Paul, though—Paul Muniment.” “And what’s your trade?” Hyacinth demanded with a jump into familiarity; for his friend seemed to have told him a great deal more than was usually conveyed in that item of information. Paul Muniment looked down at him from above broad shoulders. “I work for a firm of wholesale chemists at Lambeth.” “And where do you live?” “I live over the water too; in the far south of London.” “And are you going home now?” “Oh yes, I’m going to toddle.” “And may I toddle with you?” Mr. Muniment considered him further and then gave a laugh. “I’ll carry you if you like.” “Thank you; I expect I can walk as far as you,” said Hyacinth. “Well, I admire your spirit and I daresay I shall like your company.”