Two months later I was walking up the Rue Richelieu, when some one, close beside me and a little behind, asked me in Hungarian if I was a Magyar. I turned quickly to answer no, surprised at being thus addressed, and beheld the disabled circus-rider. It flashed upon me, the moment I saw his face, that I had seen him in Turin three years before. My surprise at the sudden identification of the gymnast was construed by him into vexation at being spoken to by a stranger. He began to apologize for stopping me, and was moving away, when I asked him about the accident, remarking that I was present on the evening of his misfortune. My next question, put in order to detain him, was:
"Why did you ask if I was a Hungarian?"
"Because you wear a Hungarian hat," was the reply.
This was true. I happened to have on a little round, soft felt hat, which I had purchased in Buda Pesth.
"Well, but what if I were Hungarian?"
"Nothing; only I was lonely and wanted company, and you looked as if I had seen you somewhere before. You are an artist, are you not?"
I said I was, and asked him how he guessed it.
"I can't explain how it is," he said, "but I always know them. Are you doing anything?"
"No," I replied.
"Perhaps I may get you something to do," he suggested. "What is your line?"