AN ALIEN The individual on the doorstep had fallen into slumber over his own knees.

No greater air of prosperity clung about him than is conveyed by a rusty overcoat and wisps of cloth in place of socks.

Shelton endeavoured to pass unseen, but the sleeper woke.
"Ah, it's you, monsieur!" he said "I received your letter this evening, and have lost no time." He looked down at himself and tittered, as though to say, "But what a state I 'm in!" The young foreigner's condition was indeed more desperate than on the occasion of their first meeting, and Shelton invited him upstairs.
"You can well understand," stammered Ferrand, following his host, "that I did n't want to miss you this time.

When one is like this--" and a spasm gripped his face.
"I 'm very glad you came," said Shelton doubtfully.
His visitor's face had a week's growth of reddish beard; the deep tan of his cheeks gave him a robust appearance at variance with the fit of, trembling which had seized on him as soon as he had entered.
"Sit down-sit down," said Shelton; "you 're feeling ill!" Ferrand smiled.

"It's nothing," said he; "bad nourishment." Shelton left him seated on the edge of an armchair, and brought him in some whisky.
"Clothes," said Ferrand, when he had drunk, "are what I want.