I must remind him, besides, that he was now about to marry and assume new interests, and that our extreme familiarity might be even painful to his wife.--"O no, Loudon; I feel you are wrong there," he interjected warmly; "she DOES appreciate your nature."-- So much the better, then, I continued; and went on to point out that our separation need not be for long; that, in the way affairs were going, he might join me in two years with a fortune, small, indeed, for the States, but in France almost conspicuous; that we might unite our resources, and have one house in Paris for the winter and a second near Fontainebleau for summer, where we could be as happy as the day was long, and bring up little Pinkertons as practical artistic workmen, far from the money-hunger of the West.

"Let me go then," I concluded; "not as a deserter, but as the vanguard, to lead the march of the Pinkerton men." So I argued and pleaded, not without emotion; my friend sitting opposite, resting his chin upon his hand and (but for that single interjection) silent.

"I have been looking for this, Loudon," said he, when I had done.

"It does pain me, and that's the fact--I'm so miserably selfish.

And I believe it's a death blow to the picnics; for it's idle to deny that you were the heart and soul of them with your wand and your gallant bearing, and wit and humour and chivalry, and throwing that kind of society atmosphere about the thing.