eager, forgetting everything but—I say, Mirabeau, lend a hand! He is ready to drop. God bless my soul! Brace up, your highness,—I should say old chap—brace up! Damme, sir, what possessed you to refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? And it was the third time within the week. Answer me that, sir!"
De Bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before the two old men. They had led him to a chair at the back of the shop. Both were regarding him with justifiable severity. He smiled wanly as he passed his hand over his moist, pallid brow.
"You are poor men. Why,—why should I become a charge upon you?"
"Mon dieu!" sputtered M. Mirabeau, lifting his arms on high and shaking his head in absolute despair,—despair, you may be sure, over a most unaccountable and never-to-be-forgotten moment in which he found himself utterly and hopelessly without words.
Mr. Bramble suddenly rammed a hand down into the pocket of his ancient smoking-coat, and fished out a huge, red, glistening apple.
"Here! Eat this!"
De Bosky shook his head. His smile broadened.
"No, thank you. I—I do not like apples."
The bookseller was aghast. Moreover, pity and alarm rendered him singularly inept in the choice of a reply to this definite statement.
"Take it home to the children," he pleaded, with the best intention in the world.
By this time, M. Mirabeau had found his tongue. He took the situation in hand. With tact and an in-
