"Since last night a lot has happened to me, not only since you've befriended me, but since I tussled with that fellow here. I'd like a chance to see what I can do alone. If you, as you so generously plan, go with me, I shall feel watched--protected. It will weaken me more than anything else. I suppose I shall go all to pieces, but I'd like to try my strength. If I could suddenly master that chap with my fists after months of dissipation----" Bulstrode finished for him: "You can master the rest." "Don't give me any extra money," pleaded the tramp, as if he foresaw his friend's impulse. "Pay my ticket out West, if you will, and write to the man who is there, and I'll start in." Bulstrode beamed on him. "You're a man," he assured him--"a man." "I may become one." "You're a fine fellow." "You'll trust me, then?" "Implicitly." "Then let me start to-day. I'm reckless--let me get away. I may get off at the first station and pawn my clothes and drink and drink to a lower hell than before--but let me try alone." "You shall go alone--and go to-day." Prosper came in with the coffee; he, too, was beaming, and the servants below-stairs were all agog. Waring was a hero. "Prosper," said his master, in French, "will you, after you have served breakfast, go out to the market quarters and see if you can discover for me a medium-sized, very well-proportioned little Christmas tree? Fetch it home with you." Waring smiled faintly. Bulstrode smiled too, and more comprehendingly, and Prosper smiled and said: "Mais certainement, monsieur." THE SECOND ADVENTURE II IN WHICH HE TRIES TO BUY A PORTRAIT Bulstrode was extremely fond of travel, and every now and then treated himself to a season in London or Paris, and in the May following his adventure with Waring he saw, from his apartments in the Hôtel Ritz, from Boulevard, Bois, and the Champs Elysées, as much of the maddeningly delicious Parisian springtime "as was good for him at his age," so he said! It gave the feeling that he was a mere boy, and with buoyant sensations astir in him, life had begun over again. Any morning between eleven and twelve Bulstrode might have been seen in the Bois de Boulogne briskly walking along the Avenue des Acacias, his well-filled chest thrown out, his step light and assured; cane in hand, a boutonnière tinging the lapel of his coat; immaculate and fresh as a rose, he exhaled good-humor, kindliness, and well-being. From their traps and motors charming women bowed and smiled, the _fine fleur_ and the _beau monde_ greeted him cordially. "Regardez moi ce bon Bulstrode qui se promene," if it were a Frenchman, or, "There's dear old Jimmy Bulstrode!" if he were recognized by a compatriot.