“They will notice it,” he thought, “and immediately I will lose the distinctive aloofness which characterizes me now.”
So moving leisurely down the avenue Moisse, the young dramatist, progressed, his eyes apparently unconscious of the scene before him, his soul oblivious to the saturated world, and his mind occupied with distant and mysterious thoughts.
The downpour began to assume the proportions of a torrent. Moisse persisted in his tracks.
Someone touched his elbow.
He turned and found a little old man with faded eyes and threadbare, dripping clothes smiling earnestly at his side.
The little old man was bent in the shoulders. His shirt had no collar. His brown coat was buttoned to his neck.
His face screwed up by a sensitiveness to the cataract of drops beating against it, was round and full of wrinkles.
It had the quizzical, goodnatured look of a fuzzy little dog.
His wet eyes that seemed to be swimming in a red moisture peered at Moisse who was frowning.
“I’m hungry,” began the little old man, “I ain’t had anything to eat—”