reater length than Eugenie had ever
heard it; and throughout, the subtle, instinctive appeal of man to man
governed the story, differentiating it altogether from the same story,
told to a woman.

He spoke impetuously, with growing emotion, conscious of an infinite
relief and abandonment. Watson listened with scarcely a comment.
Midway a little pattering, scuffling noise startled the speaker. He
looked round and saw the monkey, Anatole, who had been lying asleep
in his basket. Watson nodded to Fenwick to go on, and then feebly
motioned to his knee. The monkey clambered there, and Watson folded
his bony arms round the creature, who lay presently with his weird
face pressed against his master's dressing-gown, his melancholy eyes
staring out at Fenwick.

'It was Madame she was jealous of?' said Watson, when the story came
to an end.

Fenwick hesitated--then nodded reluctantly. He had spoken merely of
'one of my sitters.' But it was not possible to fence with this dying
man.

'And Madame knows?'

'Yes.'

But Fenwick sharply regretted the introduction of Madame de
Pastourelles' name. He had brought the story down merely to the point
of Phoebe's flight and the search which followed, adding only--with
vagueness--that the search had lately been renewed, without success.

Watson pondered the matter for some time. Fenwick took out his
handkerchief and wiped a brow damp with perspiration. His story--added
to the miseries of the day--had excited and shaken him still further.

Suddenly Watson put out a hand and seized his wrist. The grip hurt.

'Lucky dog!'

'What on earth do you mean?'

'You've lost them--but you've had a woman in your arms--a child on
your knee! You don't go to your grave--[Greek: apraktos]--an ignorant,
barren fool--like me!'

Fenwick looked at him in amazement. Self-scorn--bitter and passionate
regret--transformed the face beside him. He pressed the fevered hand.

'Watson!--dear fellow!'

Watson withdrew his hand, and once more folded the monkey to him.

'There are plenty of men like me,' he muttered. 'We are afraid of
living--and art is our refuge. Then art takes its revenge--and we
are bad artists, because we are poor and sterilised human beings.
But you'--he spoke with fresh energy, composing himself--'don't talk
rot!--as though _your_ chance was done. You'll find her--she'll come
back to you--when she's drunk the cup. Healthy young women don't die
before thirty-five;--and by your account