1 Rue du Petit Neore.
Dear Monsieur,—I am here. Poor mamma is in the hospital. I
am allowed to see her twice a day. At all other times I
remain alone, praying and weeping. I trust that monsieur has
passed a good night. For me, I was sleepless, thinking of
mamma. I go now to church.
Adele Verbena.
He laid this missive down, and sighed deeply. How strangely innocent it was, how simple, how sincere! There were white souls in Algiers—yes, even in Algiers. Strange that he should know one! Strange that he, who had filled a Merrin’s exercise-book with tiny writing, and had even overflowed on to the cover after “crossing” many pages, should receive the child-like confidences of one! “I go now to the church.” Tears came into his eyes as he laid the letter down beside a pile of buttered toast over which the burning afternoon sun of Africa was shining.
“Monsieur will take milk and sugar?”
It was the head waiter’s Napoleonic voice. Mr. Greyne controlled himself. The man was smiling intelligently. All the staff of the hotel smiled intelligently at Mr. Greyne to-day—the waiters, the porters, the chasseurs. The child of eight who was thankful that he knew no better had greeted him with a merry laugh as he came down to breakfast, and an “Oh, là, là!” which had elicited a rebuke from the proprietor. Indeed, a wave of human sympathy flowed upon Mr. Greyne, whose ashy face and dull, washed-out eyes betrayed the severity of his night-watch.
“Monsieur will feel better after a little food.”
The head waiter handed the buttered toast with bland majesty, at the same time shooting a reproving glance at the little chasseur, who was peeping from behind the door at the afternoon breakfaster.
“I feel perfectly well,” replied Mr. Greyne, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
“Still, monsieur will feel much better after a little food.”
Mr. Greyne began to toy with an egg.
“You know Algiers?” he asked.