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He took up his letters in his large hand, and crushing them together, held it out to me. “That epistolary matter,” he said, “is worth about five cents. But I guess,” he added, rising, “I have taken it in by this time.” When I had drawn my money I asked him to come and breakfast with me at the little brasserie, much favoured by students, to which I used to resort in the old town. “I couldn’t eat, sir,” he said, “I–couldn’t eat. Bad news takes away the appetite. But I guess I’ll go with you, so that I needn’t go to table down there at the pension. The old woman down there is always accusing me of turning up my nose at her food. Well, I guess I shan’t turn up my nose at anything now.”

We went to the little brasserie, where poor Mr. Ruck made the lightest possible breakfast. But if he ate very little, he talked a great deal; he talked about business, going into a hundred details in which I was quite unable to follow him. His talk was not angry nor bitter; it was a long, meditative, melancholy monologue; if it had been a trifle less incoherent I should almost have called it philosophic. I was very sorry for him; I wanted to do something for him, but the only thing I could do was, when we had breakfasted, to see him safely back to the Pension Beaurepas. We went across the Treille and down the Corraterie, out of which we turned into the Rue du Rhone. In this latter street, as all the world knows, are many of those brilliant jewellers’ shops for which Geneva is famous. I always admired their glittering windows, and never passed them without a lingering glance. Even on this occasion, pre-occupied as I was with my impending departure, and with my companion’s troubles, I suffered my eyes to wander along the precious tiers that flashed and twinkled behind the huge clear plates of glass. Thanks to this inveterate habit, I made a discovery. In the largest and most brilliant of these establishments I perceived two ladies, seated before the counter with an air of absorption, which sufficiently proclaimed their identity. I hoped my companion would not see them, but as we came abreast of the door, a little beyond, we found it open to the warm summer air. Mr. Ruck happened to glance in, and he immediately recognised his wife and daughter. He slowly stopped, looking at them; I wondered what he would do. The salesman was holding up a bracelet before them, on its velvet cushion, and flashing it about in an irresistible manner.

Mr. Ruck said nothing, but he presently went in, and I did the same.

“It will be an opportunity,” I remarked, as cheerfully as possible, “for me to bid good-bye to the ladies.”

They turned round when Mr. Ruck came in, and looked at him without confusion. “Well, you had better go home to breakfast,” remarked his wife. Miss Sophy made no remark, but she took the bracelet from the attendant and gazed at it very fixedly. Mr. Ruck seated himself on an empty stool and looked round the shop.

“Well, you have been here before,” said his wife; “you were here the first day we came.”

Miss Ruck extended the precious object in her hands towards me. “Don’t you think that sweet?” she inquired.

I looked at it a moment. “No, I think it’s ugly.”

She glanced at me a moment, incredulous. “Well, I don’t believe you have any taste.”

“Why, sir, it’s just lovely,” said Mrs. Ruck.

“You’ll see it some day on me, any way,” her daughter declared.

“No, he won’t,” said Mr. Ruck, quietly.

“It will be his own fault, then,” Miss Sophy observed.

“Well, if we are going to Chamouni we want to get something here,” said Mrs. Ruck. “We may not have another chance.”

Mr. Ruck was still looking round the shop, whistling in a very low tone. “We ain’t going to Chamouni. We are going to New York city, straight.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Mrs. Ruck. “Don’t you suppose we want to take something home?”

“If we are going straight back I must have that bracelet,” her daughter declared, “Only I don’t want a velvet case; I want a satin case.”

“I must bid you good-bye,” I said to the ladies. “I am leaving Geneva in an hour or two.”

“Take a good look at that bracelet, so you’ll know it when you see it,” said Miss Sophy.

“She’s bound to have something,” remarked her mother, almost proudly.

Mr. Ruck was still vaguely inspecting the shop; he was still whistling a little. “I am afraid he is not at all well,” I said, softly, to his wife.

She twisted her head a little, and glanced at him.

“Well, I wish he’d improve!” she exclaimed.

“A satin case, and a nice one!” said Miss Ruck to the shopman.

I bade Mr. Ruck good-bye. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, sitting there on his stool, and not meeting my eye. “I’ve got to see this thing through.”

I went back to the Pension Beaurepas, and when, an hour later, I left it with my luggage, the family had not returned.