then, it was race-week, you know!

With her eyeglasses perched upon her little nose, she stopped before a
statuette, a picture, no matter what, exclaiming, merrily:

"Oh, how pretty that is! How pretty it is! It is a Tanagra! How queer
those Tanagras are. They prove that love existed in antiquity, don't
they, Varhely? Oh! I forgot; what do you know about love?"

At last, with a glass of champagne in her hand, she paused before a
portrait of Marsa, a strange, powerful picture, the work of an artist who
knew how to put soul into his painting.

"Ah! this is superb! Who painted it, Marsa?"

"Zichy," replied Marsa.

"Ah, yes, Zichy! I am no longer astonished. By the way, there is another
Hungarian artist who paints very well. I have heard of him. He is an old
man; I don't exactly remember his name, something like Barabas."

"Nicolas de Baratras," said Varhely.

"Yes, that's it. It seems he is a master. But your Zichy pleases me
infinitely. He has caught your eyes and expression wonderfully; it is
exactly like you, Princess. I should like to have my portrait painted by
him. His first name is Michel, is it not?"

She examined the signature, peering through her eyeglass, close to the
canvas.

"Yes, I knew it was. Michel Zichy!"

This name of "Michel!" suddenly pronounced, sped like an arrow through
Marsa's heart. She closed her eyes as if to shut out some hateful vision,
and abruptly quitted the Baroness, who proceeded to analyze Zichy's
portrait as she did the pictures in the salon on varnishing day. Marsa
went toward other friends, answering their flatteries with smiles, and
forcing herself to talk and forget.

Andras, in the midst of the crowd where Vogotzine's loud laugh alternated
with the little cries of the Baroness, felt a complex sentiment: he
wished his friends to enjoy themselves and yet he longed to be alone with
Marsa, and to take her away. They were to go first to his hotel in Paris;
and then to some obscure corner, probably to the villa of Sainte-Adresse,
until September, when they were going to Venice, and from there to Rome
for the winter.

It seemed to the Prince that all these people were taking away from him a
part of his life. Marsa belonged to them, as she went from one to
another, replying to the compliments which desperately resembled one
another, from those of Angelo Valla, which were spoken in Italian, to
those of little Yamada, the Parisianized Japanese. Andras now longed for
the solit