enchant her. How kind of you to remember a pair of ugly old bores! Rosalie!"
As Casimir talked, chiefly of the cold weather and the painful effects of absorbing too much acid into the human body, Grover meditated on the fate of an aspiring poet he had met through Léon Vaudreuil. Seeking encouragement in his chosen profession, the young man, who was employed by day in the office of an insurance company, had with great trepidation brought a sheaf of his tender verses to a cynical member of the Academie. The older man, after reading them placidly, had handed them back with the remark: "By all means, go on writing verses, mon petit—mais, si vous m'en croyez, restez dans les assurances."
Would Casimir advise him to remain in—but then there was nothing for him to remain in, except doubt, and that was intolerable.
"I took the great liberty," he finally confessed, "to bring a few of my drawings. Could I show them to you?"
Casimir clapped him on the shoulder and set down his glass, "Mais, je vous en prie!" he exclaimed, waving his thick fingers toward the portfolio which Grover was nervously fingering.
"If claim nothing for them," said Grover. "No doubt they are extremely ordinary. But one can't be certain oneself, n'est-ce pas?"
"Faites voir! Faites voir!"
It was an odd assortment. There was one sketch
