“I? Oh, Lord, no!” Martin replied, with a laugh. “Corinna goes her way and I go mine. Occasionally when there’s only one way to go—well, it isn’t hers.” “You’ve put your foot down.” “At any rate Corinna hasn’t put her foot down on me. I think,” said Martin, rubbing his thinly clad sides meditatively, “my journey with Corinna has not been without profit to myself. I’ve made a discovery.” He paused. “My dear young friend,” said Fortinbras, “let me hear it.” “I’ve found out that I needn’t be trampled on unless I like.” Fortinbras passed his hand over his broad forehead and his silver mane and regarded the young man acutely. Whatever possibilities he might have seen of a romantic attachment between the pair of derelicts no longer existed. Martin had taken cool measure of Corinna and was not the least in love with her. The Dealer in Happiness smiled in his benevolent way. “Although in your present ruffled and unshorn state you’re not looking your best, you’re a different man from my client of two months ago.” “Thanks to your advice,” said Martin, “my three weeks’ journey put me into gorgeous health and here I’ve been living in clover.” “And the environment does not seem to be unfavourable to moral and intellectual development.” “That’s Bigourdin and his friends,” cried Martin. “He is a splendid fellow, a liberal education.” “He’s an apostle of sanity,” replied Fortinbras with an approving nod. “Meanwhile sanity would not recommend your standing about in this chilly air with nothing on. I will converse with you while you dress.” “I’ll have my tub at once,” said Martin. He disappeared into the famous bathroom and after a few moments returned and made his toilet while he gossiped with Fortinbras of the things he had learned at the Café de l’Univers. “It’s a funny thing,” said he, “but I can’t make Corinna see it.” “She’s Parisianised,” replied Fortinbras. “In Paris we see things in false perspective. All the little finnicky people of the hour, artists, writers, politicians are so close to us that they loom up like mountains. You learn more of France in a week at Brantôme than in a year at Paris, because here there’s nothing to confuse your sense of values. Happy young man to live in Brantôme!” He sighed and, seeing that Martin was ready, rose and accompanied him downstairs. Félise, fresh and dainty, with heightened colour and gladness in her eyes due to the arrival of the adored father, poured out Martin’s coffee. They were old-fashioned in the Hôtel des Grottes, and drank coffee out of generous bowls without handles, beside which, on the plate, rested great spoons for such sops of bread as might be thrown therein. “It is as you like it?” she asked in her pretty, clipped English.