udged by the marking
which had been almost erased, deliberately obliterated, it appeared to
him.

He placed it in his desk, seated himself, explored his bruises
gingerly with cautious finger-tips, concluded that the bridge of his
nose was not broken, then threw himself back in his armchair for some
grim and concentrated thinking.

XVII

A CONFERENCE

The elegantly modulated accents of Aristocrates, announcing the
imminence of luncheon, aroused Barres from disconcerted but wrathful
reflections.

As he sat up and tenderly caressed his battered head, Thessalie and
Dulcie came slowly into the studio together, their arms interlaced.

Both exclaimed at the sight of the young man's swollen face, but he
checked their sympathetic enquiries drily:

"Bumped into something. It's nothing. How are you, Dulcie? All right
again?"

She nodded, evidently much concerned about his disfigured forehead; so
to terminate sympathetic advice he went away to bathe his bruises in
witch hazel, and presently returned smelling strongly of that
time-honoured panacea, and with a saturated handkerchief adorning his
brow.

At the same time, there came a considerable thumping and bumping from
the corridor; the bell rang, and Westmore appeared with the
trunks--five of them. These a pair of brawny expressmen rolled into
the studio and carried thence to the storeroom which separated the
bedroom and bath from the kitchen.

"Any trouble?" enquired Barres of Westmore, when the expressmen had
gone.

"None at all. Nobody looked at me twice. What's happened to your
noddle?"

"Bumped it. Lunch is ready."

Thessalie came over to him:

"I have included Dulcie among my confidants," she said in a low
voice.

"You mean you've told her----"

"Everything. And I am glad I did."

Barres was silent; Thessalie passed her arm around Dulcie's waist; the
two men walked behind together.

The table was a mass of flowers, over which netted sunlight played.
Three cats assisted--the Prophet, always dignified, blinked pleasantly
from a window ledge; the blond Houri, beside him, purred loudly. Only
Strindberg was impossible, chasing her own tail under the patient feet
of Aristocrates, or rolling over and over beneath the table in a
mindless assault upon her own hind toes.

Seated there in the quiet peace and security of the pleasant room,
amid familiar things, with Aristocrates moving noiselessly about,
sunlight lacing wall and ceiling, and the air