Cynicism is an arid growth, found to perfection on the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore his boots out thereon.
During luncheon my host recovered his spirits; although, to do him justice, he was melancholy enough when he remembered his recent loss.
Once or twice he threw down his knife and fork, and for quite three minutes all food and drink were nauseous to him.
"Ah!" he cried, "that poor old man.

It tears the heart to think of him." He sat for a few moments with his chin in the palm of his hand, and then slowly took up again the things of this life, wielding them heartily enough.
"I wonder," he went on in a reflective voice, "if I did my duty towards him.

It was not difficult, only to make a splash and spend money, and I did that--beautifully!" "Coffee and chartreuse," he said to the waiter, when we had finished.
"And leave the bottle on the table.

You know," he added, addressing me, his face beaming with conscious pride, his hand laid impressively on my arm--"you know this club drinks chartreuse in claret glasses.
It is our great distinguishing feature." While religiously observing this law we fell to discussing the future.
"One cannot," observed my companion, philosophically, "bring on the thunder-storm, however heavy the air may be.

One can only gasp and wait.