him. "Don't be ridiculous, Tony."

The others had moved away to speak to the Comtesse Potowski, and they
were alone.

"I am becoming ridiculous," said Antony, "that is true, but it is not
because I am going to work."

She did not seem to notice anything in his gravity. "Don't forget we are
dining and driving out to Versailles; don't forget, Tony."

Fairfax made no response. On his face was a pitiless look, but Mrs.
Faversham, happy in her successful breakfast and enchanted with the
music, did not read his expression.

"I will come in to-morrow, Mary."

Mrs. Faversham, turning to a man who had come up to her, still
understood nothing.

"Don't forget, Tony,"--she nodded at him--"this afternoon."

Antony bade her good-bye. He looked back at her across the room, and she
seemed to him then the greatest stranger of them all.

CHAPTER XIX

He went upstairs to his atelier with a strange eager hammering at his
heart. For several weeks the studio had been, for him, little more than
an ante-chamber--a dressing-room where he had made careful toilettes
before going to Mrs. Faversham. His constant attendance upon a beautiful
woman had turned him into something of a dandy, and the purchase of fine
clothes and linen had eaten well into his borrowed money, which had been
frankly used by Dearborn when in need.

"Dearborn, wear any of my things you like, only don't get ink spots on
them, for God's sake!"

And Dearborn had responded, "I don't need to go courting in
four-hundred-franc suits, Tony; Nora is my kind, you know."

And when Antony had flashed out, "What the devil do you mean?" Dearborn
explained--

"Only that Nora and I are poor together. I didn't intend to be rude, old
man."

Dearborn had gone to London third-class with his play under his arm and
hope in his heart. Antony had not been sorry to find himself alone. When
he was not with Mary he paced the floor, his idle hands in his pockets.
At night he was restless, and he did not disturb any one when at two
o'clock he would rise to smoke, and, leaning out of the window, watch
the dawn come up over the Louvre, over the river and the quays. His
easels, his tools, his covered busts mocked him as the dust settled down
upon them. His part of the big room had fallen into disuse. In the
salons of Mary Faversham nothing seemed important but the possession of
riches; they talked of art there, but they discussed it easily, and no
one ever spoke of work. They tal