sponsible for the fat man's reflection. 'It is so bad that the imagination recoils, refuses.'
'Oh, we don't care for the imagination!' the fat man declared. 'We want a compact body, in marching order.'
'What do you call a compact body?' the little gray-faced shoemaker demanded. 'I daresay you don't mean your kind of body.'
'Well, I know what I mean,' said the fat man, severely.
'That's a grand thing. Perhaps one of these days you'll tell us.'
'You'll see it for yourself, perhaps, before that day comes,' the gentleman with the silver ring rejoined. 'Perhaps when you do, you'll remember.'
'Well, you know, Schinkel says we don't,' said the shoemaker, nodding at the cloud-compelling German.
'I don't care what no man says!' the dog-fancier exclaimed, gazing straight before him.
'They say it's a bad year—the blockheads in the newspapers,' Mr. Schinkel went on, addressing himself to the company at large. 'They say that on purpose—to convey the impression that there are such things as good years. I ask the company, has any gentleman present ever happened to notice that article? The good year is yet to come: it might begin to-night, if we like; it all depends on our being able to be serious for a few hours. But that is too much to expect. Mr. Muniment is very serious; he looks as if he was waiting for the signal; but he doesn't speak—he never speaks, if I want particularly to hear him. He only considers, very deeply, I am sure. But it is almost as bad to think without speaking as to speak without thinking.'
