nding together
and refreshing their jaded bodies. I joined them at once, full of the
news about Krak. It fell rather flat, I regret to say; Krak had not
significance for them, and Wetter was full of wild brilliant talk.
Varvilliers' manner, on the other hand, although displaying now no
awkwardness or restraint, showed unusual gentleness and gravity with an
added friendliness very welcome to me. I stood between my friends,
sipping my wine and detaining them, although the room was nearly empty.
I felt a reluctance to part and an invincible repugnance to my bed.

"Come to my quarters," I said, "and we'll have cigars."

Varvilliers bowed ready assent. Wetter's face twisted into a smile.

"I must plead excuse to the command," he said.

"Then you're a rascal, Wetter; I want you, man, and you ought not to be
expected anywhere this time of night."

"Not at home, sire?"

"Home least of all," said Varvilliers, smiling.

"But I have guests at home," cried Wetter. "I've left them too long. But
Her Royal Highness didn't invite them; besides it was necessary to
practise the song."

"What? Are they with you?"

"Should I send them to a hotel, sire? My friends the Struboffs! No, no!"

Sipping my wine, I looked doubtfully from one to the other.

"The King," observed Wetter to Varvilliers, "would be interested in
hearing a rehearsal of the song."

"But," said I, "Krak comes to-night, and I daren't look as if I'd sat up
beyond my hour."

Wetter laid his finger on my arm.

"One more night," he said. Varvilliers laughed. "I have the same old
servant. He's very discreet!"

"But you'll put it in the Vorwaerts!"

"No, no, not if the meeting-place is my own house."

"I'll do it!" I cried. "Come, let's have a carriage."

"Mine waits," said Varvilliers, "at your disposal. I'll see about it,"
and off he ran. Wetter turned to me.

"An interesting quartette there in the recess," said he.

"And an insolent fellow looking on at it," said I.

"I'll write an article on your impulsive love-making before all the
world."

"Do; I can conceive nothing more politic."

"It shall teem with sincerity."

"Never a jest anywhere in it? Not one for me?"

"No. Jests are in place only when one tells the truth. A lie must be
solemn, sire."

"True. Write it to your mood."

And to his mood he wrote it, eloquently, beautifully, charged with the
passion of that joy which he realized in imagination, but could not find
in his stormy life. I