But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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