but not very vigorously. < ' Stop, I beg of you. If your parents were to see you? "

But he began to laugh :

" My parents! Oh! my parents, you know, — I have supped on them."

This was a phrase that he was continually using. "When one asked him anything, he answered : "I have supped on that. ' ' And he had supped on everything.

To gain a little time I asked him :

"There is one thing that puzzles me. Monsieur Xavier. How does it happen that one never sees you at Madame's dinners? "

" You certainly don't expect me, my dear . . . oh! no, you know, Madame's dinners tire me too much."

" And how is it," I insisted, " that your room is the only one in the house in which there is not a picture of the pope ? ' '

This observation flattered him. He answered:

"Why, my little baby, I am an Anarchist, I am. Religion, the Jesuits, the priests, — oh! no, I have enough of them. I have supped on them. A society made up of people like papa and mamma ? Oh ! you know . . . none of that in mine, thank you! "

Now I felt at ease with M. Xavier, in whom I found, together with the same vices, the drawling accent of the Paris toughs. It seemed to m