d, Lorenzo, held it for a while before he
sold it to the Salviati. So it passed through many hands until at last
Hilaire Avenel bought it and filled it with the books and armour that
he loved. There were Spanish suits, gold-chased, in the hall, Moorish
swords and lances, and steel hauberks on the staircase, and stray
arquebuses, greaves and gauntlets everywhere. They were all rather
dusty, since Hilaire was unmarried; but he was well served
nevertheless. He was not a sociable person, and no Florentine had ever
partaken of a meal with him, but it was currently reported that he sat
through a ten-course dinner every night of his life, crumbling the
bread at the side of his plate, and invariably refusing to partake of
nine of the dishes that were handed in form by the old butler.

"It's real mean of your brother to keep his lovely garden shut up all
through the spring," the Marchesa Lorenzoni had said once to Jean, and
he had replied, "Well, it is his."

That seemed final, but the present Marchesa and late relict of Jonas
P. Whittaker of Pittsburg was not so easily put off. She was apt to
motor up to Settignano more than once in the May month of flowers; the
intractable Hilaire was never at home to her, but she revenged herself
by multitudinous kind inquiries. He was an invalid, but he disliked to
be reminded of his infirmities almost as much as he did most women and
all cackle about the weather.

Jean lived with him when not playing Chopin at the ends of the earth,
and when the two were together the elder declared himself to be
perfectly happy. "I only want you."

"And your first editions and your Cellini helmet."

When Jean came back from his American tour his brother was quick to
notice a change in him, and when on the day after his Florentine
concert he came in late for a dinner which he ate in silence, Hilaire
spoke his mind. They were together in the library. Jean had taken a
book down from the shelves but he was not reading it.

"Bad coffee."

"Was it?"

Hilaire was watching his brother's face. It seemed to him that there
were lines in it that he had not seen before, and the brown eyes that
gazed so intently into the fire were surely very tired.

He began again rather awkwardly. "You have been here a week, Jean."

"Yes."

"Did the concert go off well?"

"Oh, well enough. As usual."

"You went away alone in the Itala car before nine this morning and you
came back scarcely an hour ago. What is the matt