the fire of life, and burnt them too. You remember when we were in Paris, last year, going to see Emile Angier, in the play 'Jean de Thomeray'? Often of late one scene comes back to me. The silent Quai Malaquais which, on the eve of the beleaguering of Paris, the daylight even has deserted. Upon it Jean enters, skeptic and libertine, who jeers at his friend, who has taken the trouble to get wounded in the struggle with the Germans closing round the capital. Suddenly a military band approaches, playing a march Thomeray knew when a child in far-off Brittany. At sight of the Breton Mobiles marching along at quick step to meet the enemy of the country, Thomeray's heart swells and bursts the bonds in which his scoffing nature had permitted itself to be bound. You remember how he steps forward and claims a place in the Breton ranks. 'Qui êtes vous?' they ask, looking distrustfully at his fine gentleman's clothes. 'I am,' he said, 'a man who has lived ill and would die well.' That am I, Jacynth, but it would not be meet that I should die just yet. I've been a fool and worse. But if I had only three years, two years, one year to pay some of my long debt to Fenella, I wouldn't care about what might follow. It's been all my fault from first to last. I want time to tell her that, and to make some slight amends."
"Nonsense, Onslow, you are hipped; perhaps seasick. Shall we turn in?"
