of the bed and looking at him wanly. The man's untidy hair was a lustrous black, and it could be seen that ordinarily he was of a swarthy complexion; but he had no swarthiness now. On the contrary, his pallor was disquieting and so was his expression. "Mangiare?" he said almost in a whisper, and closed his eyes pathetically. "Mangiare?"
Ogle had no wish to comprehend his meaning. "You'd better go away, steward. I don't speak Italian. No Italian. Italian no."
The steward wavered, but tightened his clutch upon the foot of the bed. "Vous voulez manger quelque chose?"
Ogle understood that he was now being addressed in the French language, which he had studied for several years in school and college, but without ever acquiring any great practical facility in its usage. However, he remembered a phrase. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
"Voulez manger?"
"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
The man opened his mouth and with a limp forefinger pointed to the aperture.
"Eat?" Ogle said incredulously. "No!"
"No!" the steward echoed, agreeing; then, balanc-
