'C'etait un homme'!" Shelton had continued staring kindly at the little man; the barber added hastily: "It's difficult to make an end like that one has moments of weakness." "Yes," assented Shelton, "one has indeed." The little barber looked at him with cynical discretion.
"Oh!" he said, "it 's to the destitute that such things are important.
When one has money, all these matters--" He shrugged his shoulders.

A smile had lodged amongst his crow's-feet; he waved his hand as though to end the subject.
A sense of having been exposed came over Shelton.
"You think, then," said he, "that discontent is peculiar to the destitute ?" "Monsieur," replied the little barber, "a plutocrat knows too well that if he mixes in that 'galere' there 's not a dog in the streets more lost than he." Shelton rose.
"The rain is over.

I hope you 'll soon be better; perhaps you 'll accept this in memory of that old actor," and he slipped a sovereign into the little Frenchman's hand.
The latter bowed.
"Whenever you are passing, monsieur," he said eagerly, "I shall be charmed to see you." And Shelton walked away.

"'Not a dog in the streets more lost,'" thought he; "now what did he mean by that ?" Something of that "lost dog" feeling had gripped his spirit.

Another month of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might even kill his love.