f a body.

The door trembled. The chair was pushed back, little by little, very
gently pushed. In the darkness he descried a moving shadow, dark and
dense. He made a movement.

"Shhhh-h!" sighed a ghostly voice, a voice from the other world. "It is
I."

Instinctively he raised his right hand to the wall and turned on the
light.

Under the electric light it was she,--a different Freya from any that
he had ever seen, with her wealth of hair falling in golden serpents
over her shoulders covered with an Asiatic tunic that enveloped her
like a cloud.

It was not the Japanese kimono, vulgarized by commerce. It was made in
one piece of Hindustanic cloth, embroidered with fantastic flowers and
capriciously draped. Through its fine texture could be perceived the
flesh as though it were a wrapping of multicolored air.

She uttered a protest. Then, imitating Ulysses' gesture, she reached
her hand toward the wall ... and all was darkness.

* * * * *

Upon awakening, he felt the sunlight on his face. The window, whose
curtains he had forgotten to draw, was blue,--blue sky above and the
blue of the sea in its lower panes.

He looked around him.... Nobody! For a moment he believed he must have
been dreaming, but the sweet perfume of her hair still scented the
pillow. The reality of awakening was as joyous for Ulysses, as sweet as
had been the night hours in the mystery of the darkness. He had never
felt so strong and so happy.

In the window sounded a baritone voice singing one of the songs of
Naples,--"Oh, sweet land, sweet gulf!..." That certainly was the most
beautiful spot in the world. Proud and satisfied with his fate, he
would have liked to embrace the waves, the islands, the city, Vesuvius.

A bell jangled impatiently in the corridor. Captain Ferragut was
hungry. He surveyed with the glance of an ogre the _cafe au lait_, the
abundant bread, and the small pat of butter that the waiter brought
him. A very small portion for him!... And while he was attacking all
this with avidity, the door opened and Freya, rosy and fresh from a
recent bath and clad like a man, entered the room.

The Hindu tunic had been replaced with masculine pyjamas of violet
silk. The pantaloons had the edges turned up over a pair of white
Turkish slippers into which were tucked her bare feet. Over her heart
there was embroidered a design whose letters Ulysses was not able to
decipher. Above this device the point