He is Roweled of the Spur of Necessity
And he swung a chair up to the window and sat down, cocking his feet upon the sill. A pipe lay convenient to his hand—a small and intensely black clay; unconsciously O'Rourke's fingers wandered towards it. They clasped with loving tenderness about the bowl, while the fingers of his other hand explored his coat pocket for a match. That found, the Irishman discovered a fresh beauty in the brilliant morning—a beauty but enhanced by the clouds of blue-gray incense that floated between him and the open casement.
By degrees, however, his smile faded. Not always was it possible for O'Rourke to laugh in the teeth of his adversities. His gaze wandered far out from the open window and over the billowy sea of Parisian roofs that lay steaming in a bath of May sunshine.
The morning was one clear and brilliant, following on the heels of a day of scourging rain. Paris was happy; her face was washed, and she had on a clean pinafore dashed with the perfume of the spring things that were budding in her gardens. O'Rourke alone, perhaps, was out of tune with the universal spirit of contentment.
Now, good reasons why a man may be out of sorts in a Parisian springtide are few and far between; but they exist; O'Rourke had brought his with him when he had moved upon the capital on the edge of the winter, just vanished; and thereafter he had eaten and slept, moved and had his being in their company, enduring them with what patience he might—which was not overmuch, in truth. But now he was especially wistful and uneasy in his actions.
His supply of ready cash was not alarmingly low; it was non-existent—one all-sufficient reason for the disquietude of his soul.
Again, city life irked the man, who was of a nature tran-
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