Boris and I looked at one another. "I had better go home, don't you think?" I asked. "Hanged if I know," he replied frankly. While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Geneviève
reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully
beautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were too
bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm. "Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but I
haven't. Come here, Boris;" and she slipped her other arm through his. "Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I like as
well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won't hurt him." "À la bonheur!" I cried, "who says there are no thunderstorms in April?" "Are you ready?" chanted Boris. "Aye ready;" and arm-in-arm we raced into
the dining-room, scandalizing the servants. After all we were not so much
to blame; Geneviève was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I not quite
twenty-one. II

Some work that I was doing about this time on the decorations for
Geneviève's boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the
Rue Sainte-Cécile. Boris and I in those days laboured hard but as we
pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, idled a
great deal together. One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining
curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from
strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing-room. Boris,
all over clay, stood there washing his hands. The room was built of rose-coloured marble excepting the floor, which was
tessellated in rose and grey. In the centre was a square pool sunken
below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it, sculptured
pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble Cupid appeared
to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. The
whole interior was Boris' work and mine. Boris, in his working-clothes of
white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling wax from his
handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder with the Cupid. "I see you," he insisted, "don't try to look the other way and pretend
not to see me. You know who made you, little humbug!" It was always my rôle to interpret Cupid's sentiments in these
conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner, that
Boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would
duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. "Good God!" he
said, "I forgot the pool is full of the solution!" I shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he
had stored the precious liquid. "In Heaven's name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff
here of all places?" I asked. "I want to experiment on something large," he replied. "On me, for instance?" "Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action
of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that
big white rabbit," he said, following me into the studio. Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in,
appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on,
looted the cigarette case, and finally he and Boris disappeared together
to visit the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and a
landscape of Monet's were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic
France. I went back to the studio, and resumed my work. It was a
Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for Geneviève's
boudoir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series
of poses for it, to-day refused all bribes to be good. He never rested an
instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes I had as many
different outlines of the little beggar. "Are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?" I
inquired. "Whichever monsieur pleases," he replied, with an angelic smile. Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the
full time, that being the way we spoil our models. After the young imp had gone, I made a few perfunctory daubs at my work,
but was so thoroughly out of humour, that it took me the rest of the
afternoon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped my palette,
stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the
smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Geneviève's apartments, no
room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one. It
was a queer chaos of odds and ends, hung with threadbare tapestry. A
sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window. There were
stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and modern, festoons
of Indian and Turkish armour over the mantel, two or three good pictures,
and a pipe-rack. It was here that we used to come for new sensations in
smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever existed which was not
represented in that rack. When we had selected one, we immediately
carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was, on the whole,
more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. But this afternoon,
the twilight was very soothing, the rugs and skins on the floor looked
brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with cushions--I found
my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke in the
smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long flexible stem, and lighting it
fell to dreaming. After a while it went out, but I did not stir. I
dreamed on and presently fell asleep. I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark, I
had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the
old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume
floats above a box of sandalwood. Some one rose in the darkness, and came
away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry out "Geneviève!" She dropped at my voice, and, I had time to curse myself while I made a
light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a
murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to
the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the
servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to
Geneviève. She lay where I had left her, looking very white. "I can't find Boris nor any of the servants," I said. "I know," she answered faintly, "Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I
did not remember when I sent you for him just now." "But he can't get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and--are
you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I
was only half awake." "Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for
letting you stay here all this time." "I have had a long nap," I laughed, "so sound that I did not know whether
I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a figure that
was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the
old spinet?