Horace held out his hand and grasped the shy hand of the other.
“Jean,” said Horace—“you are an artist.”
The man’s face flushed with pleasure.
Horace took a banknote from his pocket and flung it on the table:
“Divide that amongst the waiters,” he said; “and, Jean, give this to your good wife—it will help little Marie to her dowry.” He handed the man a crisp banknote; and the old fellow’s eyes filled with tears....
As the door closed on Horace, one of them laughed:
“Ah, mon Dieu!” said he drily—“that they should ever grow wise!”
“Silence!” roared the old waiter.
Horace, as he passed through the doorway, was greeted by Gaston Latour:
“You must skip down the highway of youth for the last time, Horace,” said he. “You must once again eat the dawn on the Boule Miche. Forward, comrades!”