’He drained his glass and returned to his twirling.  “No, no; one does not die of it,” he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for.  I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better.  Even his thumbs were still now.  Suddenly his lips began to move.  “That is so,” he resumed placidly.  “Man is born a coward (L’homme est ne poltron).  It is a difficulty—­parbleu!  It would be too easy other vise.  But habit—­habit—­necessity—­do you see?—­the eye of others—­voila.  One puts up with it.  And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . .”

’His voice ceased.

’"That young man—­you will observe—­had none of these inducements—­at least at the moment,” I remarked.

’He raised his eyebrows forgivingly:  “I don’t say; I don’t say.  The young man in question might have had the best dispositions—­the best dispositions,” he repeated, wheezing a little.

’"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view,” I said.  “His own feeling in the matter was—­ah!—­hopeful, and . . .”

’The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me.  He drew up his heavy eyelids.  Drew up, I say—­no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act—­and at last was disclosed completely to me.  I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils.  The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe.  “Pardon,” he said punctiliously.  His right hand went up, and he swayed forward.  “Allow me . . .  I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one’s courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul).  There’s nothing much in that to get upset about.  One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . .  But the honour—­the honour, monsieur! . . .  The honour . . . that is real—­that is!  And what life may be worth when” . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . “when the honour is gone—­ah ca! par exemple—­I can offer no opinion.  I can offer no opinion—­because—­monsieur—­I know nothing of it.”

’I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece.  Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble.  The blight of futility that lies in wait for men’s speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds.  “Very well,” I said, with a disconcerted smile; “but couldn’t it reduce itself to not being found out?” He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind.  “This, monsieur, is too fine for me—­much above me—­I don’t think about it.”  He bowed heavily