He shrugged his shoulders. A smile had lodged amongst his crow's-feet; he waved his hand as though to end the subject.
A sense of having been exposed came over Shelton.
“You think, then,” said he, “that discontent is peculiar to the destitute?”
“Monsieur,” replied the little barber, “a plutocrat knows too well that if he mixes in that 'galere' there 's not a dog in the streets more lost than he.”
Shelton rose.
“The rain is over. I hope you 'll soon be better; perhaps you 'll accept this in memory of that old actor,” and he slipped a sovereign into the little Frenchman's hand.
The latter bowed.
“Whenever you are passing, monsieur,” he said eagerly, “I shall be charmed to see you.”
And Shelton walked away. “'Not a dog in the streets more lost,'.rdquo; thought he; “now what did he mean by that?”
Something of that “lost dog” feeling had gripped his spirit. Another month of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might even kill his love. In the excitement of his senses and his nerves, caused by this strain of waiting, everything seemed too vivid; all was beyond life size; like Art—whose truths; too strong for daily use, are thus, unpopular with healthy people. As will the bones in a worn face, the spirit underlying things had reached the surface; the meanness and intolerable measure of hard facts, were too apparent. Some craving for help, some instinct, drove him into Kensington, for he found himself before his, mother's house. Providence seemed bent on flinging him from pole to pole.