letters, and said, 'Of course you know they were clever; they entertained me immensely. But as I read them I thought of poor Pinnie: I wished she could have listened to them; they would have made her so happy.'
'Yes, poor Pinnie,' Hyacinth murmured, while Mr. Vetch went on:
'I was in Paris in 1840; I stayed at a small hotel in the Rue Mogador. I judge everything is changed, from your letters. Does the Rue Mogador still exist? Yes, everything is changed. I daresay it's all much finer, but I liked it very much as it was then. At all events, I am right in supposing—am I not?—that it cheered you up considerably, made you really happy.'
'Why should I have wanted any cheering? I was happy enough,' Hyacinth replied.
The fiddler turned his old white face upon him; it had the unhealthy smoothness which denotes a sedentary occupation, thirty years spent in a close crowd, amid the smoke of lamps and the odour of stage-paint. 'I thought you were sad about Pinnie,' he remarked.
'When I jumped, with that avidity, at your proposal that I should take a tour? Poor old Pinnie!' Hyacinth added.
'Well, I hope you think a little better of the world. We mustn't make up our mind too early in life.'
'Oh, I have made up mine: it's an awfully jolly place.'
'Awfully jolly, no; but I like it as I like an old pair of shoes—I like so much less the idea of putting on the new ones.'
'Why should I complain?' Hyacinth asked. 'What
