They turned about shortly after this and began to retrace their steps.  Presently a man came in sight, pulling a cardboard box mounted upon four spools.

“An inventor,” Monet said, as Fred threw out a questioning glance.  “He has an idea that he’s perfected a wonderful automobile...  You’ll get used to them after a while.”

A little farther on they met a haughty-looking Japanese coming toward them.  Monet plucked at Fred’s sleeve.  “Better step to one side,” he cautioned; “that fellow thinks he is the Emperor of Japan!”

Fred did as he was bidden and the Japanese swept past gloomily.

“Well, at least he’s happy, in his own way!” Monet commented, with a tinge of irony.

Soon after that another man passed, weeping bitterly.

“They call him the Weeping Willow,” Monet explained.  “He weeps because he can find no one who will kill him.”

Fred shuddered.

By this time they had reached their starting point.  Fred felt suddenly tired.  “Let’s rest a bit under the trees,” he proposed.

Monet assented, and the two threw themselves into the first shade.  Fred closed his eyes.  He had a sense that he was dreaming—­that all the scenes that he had witnessed these many days were unreal.  Presently he would wake up to the old familiar ring of his alarm clock, and gradually all the outlines of his bedroom would shape themselves to his recovered senses...  There would stand Helen by her dressing table, stooping down to the mirror’s level as she popped her thick braids under her pink boudoir cap...  In a few minutes the first whiffs of coffee would come floating in from the kitchenette.  Then he would crawl slowly out from the warm bedclothes and stretch himself comfortably and give a sudden dash for the bathroom and his cold plunge.  There would follow breakfast and the walk over the hill down to the office of Ford, Wetherbee & Co. in a mist-golden morning.  And he would hear again the exchange of greetings, and find himself replying to the inevitable question: 

“Well, what’s new?”

With the equally inevitable answer: 

“Not a thing in the world!”

Some one was shaking him.  He gave a quick gasp that ended in a groan as he opened his eyes.  Monet was bending over him.

“You’ve been asleep,” his companion said.  “Come, it’s time to go in...  The bell for supper has rung...  And you were dreaming, too ...  I knew that because you smiled!”

Fred Starratt grasped Monet’s hand fervently.

“It was good of you to keep watch,” he murmured.

Monet answered with a warm pressure.  And at that moment something deep and indefinable passed between them ... a silent covenant too precious for words.

Fred Starratt rose to his feet.

“Let us go in!” he said.

* * * * *

At supper Fred Starratt nibbled at some dry bread and drank another strong draught of tea.  But he had to force himself to even this scant compromise with expediency.  There followed smoking in the lavatory and at seven o’clock the call to turn in.  Fred scurried confidently to his cell-like room ... he was quite ready for solitude.