st of the afternoon.

"I want to be as long as possible in your company," she added, with a
caressing sweetness in her manner; "for now your friends have come to
Paris, I expect you will soon be leaving us, so I must have as much of
you as I can."

My heart sank at the thought of parting from her, and I looked
wistfully at her lovely face. Leo had followed her in from the studio,
and seemed still very melancholy.

"We shall always be good friends, Zara dearest," I said, "shall we not?
Close, fond friends, like sisters?"

"Sisters are not always fond of each other," remarked Zara, half gaily.
"And you know 'there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother'!"

"And what friend is that in YOUR case?" I asked, half jestingly, half
curiously.

"Death!" she replied with a strange smile, in which there was both
pathos and triumph.

I started at her unexpected reply, and a kind of foreboding chilled my
blood. I endeavoured, however, to speak cheerfully as I said:

"Why, of course, death sticks more closely to us than any friend or
relative. But you look fitter to receive the embraces of life than of
death, Zara."

"They are both one and the same thing," she answered; "or rather, the
one leads to the other. But do not let us begin to philosophize. Put on
your things and come. The carriage is waiting."

I readily obeyed her, and we enjoyed an exhilarating drive together.
The rest of the day passed with us all very pleasantly and our
conversation had principally to do with the progress of art and
literature in many lands, and maintained itself equably on the level of
mundane affairs. Among other things, we spoke of the Spanish violinist
Sarasate, and I amused Heliobas by quoting to him some of the
criticisms of the London daily papers on this great artist, such as,
"He plays pieces which, though adapted to show his wonderful skill, are
the veriest clap-trap;" "He lacks breadth and colour;" "A true type of
the artist virtuoso," etc., etc.

"Half these people do not know in the least what they mean by 'breadth
and colour' or 'virtuosity,'" said Heliobas, with a smile. "They think
emotion, passion, all true sentiment combined with extraordinary
TECHNIQUE, must be 'clap-trap.' Now the Continent of Europe
acknowledges Pablo de Sarasate as the first violinist living, and
London would not be London unless it could thrust an obtuse opposing
opinion in the face of the Continent. England is the last country in
the world