“Then why haven’t you gone home this August as usual?” asked Martin. Corinna knitted her brows. “That’s another story,” she replied shortly. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to be impertinent,” said Martin. She laughed. “Don’t be silly—you think wallowing in the family trough is the height of bliss. It isn’t. I would sooner starve than go back. At any rate I should be myself, a separate entity, an individual. Oh, that being merely a bit of clotted family! How I should hate it!” “But you would return to Paris in the autumn,” said Martin. Again she frowned and broke her bread impatiently. All that was another story. “But never mind about me. Tell me about yourself, Martin. Perhaps we may fix up something merry to do together. Père la Chaise or the Tomb of Napoleon. How long are you staying in Paris?” “I can only afford a week—I’ve already had three days. I must look out for another billet as soon as possible.” “Another billet?” Her question reminded him that she was ignorant of his novel position as professor _in partibus_. He explained, over the _bœuf flammande_. Corinna putting the “other story” of her own trouble aside listened sympathetically. All Paris art-students must learn to do that; otherwise who would listen sympathetically to them? And all art-students want a prodigious amount of sympathy, so uniquely constituted is each in genius and temperament. “You can’t go back to that dog’s life,” she said, after a while. “You must get a post in a good public-school.” Martin sighed. “Why not in the Kingdom of Heaven? It’s just as possible. Heads of Public Schools don’t engage as masters men who haven’t a degree and have hacked out their youth in low-class institutions like Margett’s. I know only too well. To have been at Margett’s damns me utterly with the public-schools. I must find another Margett’s!” “Why don’t you do something else?” asked the girl.