And it is going straight through the mountain." And then before Jack or Peter could reply the speaker branched out into an account of the financing of the great Mt.

Cenis tunnel, and why the founder of the house of Rothschild, who had "assisted" in its construction, got so many decorations from foreign governments; the talk finally switching off to the enamelled and jewelled snuff boxes of Baron James Rothschild, whose collection had been the largest in Europe; and what had become of it; and then by one of those illogical jumps--often indulged in by well-informed men discussing any subject that absorbs them--brought up at Voltaire and Taine and the earlier days of the Revolution in which one of the little tailor's ancestors had suffered spoliation and death.
Jack sat silent--he had long since found himself out of his depth--drinking in every word of the talk, his wonderment increasing every moment, not only over Cohen, but over Peter as well, whom he had never before heard so eloquent or so learned, or so entertaining.
When at last the little man rose to go, the boy, with one of those spontaneous impulses which was part of his nature, sprang from his seat, found the tailor's hat himself, and conducting him to the door, wished him good-night with all the grace and well-meant courtesy he would show a prince of the blood, should he ever be fortunate enough to meet one.
Peter was standing on the mat, his back to the fire, when the boy returned.
"Jack, you delight me!" the old fellow cried.

"Your father couldn't have played host better.

Really, I am beginning to believe I won't have to lock you up in an asylum.

You're getting wonderfully sane, my boy,--real human.