What must he do?
The question beat in his brain.

Wisdom whispered avoidance of this stranger.

To-day was the first day; was it wise to bring into it anything from yesterday?
No, it was not wise--reason upheld wisdom.

He pulled his hat into place, his lips came together in an obstinate line, and he raised his eyes.
The sun was dancing on a silvery world, from the rue de Rivoli the fifes and drums still rattled out their march, close beside him the Irishman was looking at him with his pleasant smile.
Suddenly, as a daring horseman might give rein to a young horse, rejoicing in the risk, the boy discarded wisdom and its whispering curb; his nature leaped forth in sudden comradeship, and impulsively he held out his hand.
"Monsieur, forgive me!" he said.

"The gods know best!" He said the words in English, perfectly, easily, with that faintest of all foreign intonations--the intonation that clings to the Russian voice..