able. At last we arrived at No. 7. At my ring
the door swung open drawn by the concierge within. I helped Paragot out
of the carriage. He made a desperate effort to stand and walk steadily.
Heaven knows how he managed to clamber with not too great indecency up
the stairs to the Comte de Verneuil's flat on the first floor. Joanna
opened the door with her latch key and we entered a softly-lit drawing
room.

"Let me sit down," said Paragot. "I shall be better presently."

He sank an ashamed heap on a sofa by the wall, and with his fingers
through his long black hair fought for mastery over his intoxication.
The Comtesse de Verneuil left us and presently returned, having taken
off her hat and evening wrap. She brought a little silver tray with
Madeira wine and biscuits.

"We need something, Mr. Asticot," she said graciously.

We drank the wine and sat down to wait for Paragot's recovery. Although
it was late May, a wood fire glowed beneath the great chimney-piece.
This made of blue and white ware with corbels of cherubs caught my
attention. I had seen things like it in the stately museums of Italy.

"But this is Della Robbia," I exclaimed.

She smiled, somewhat surprised. "You are a connoisseur as well as a
philosopher, Mr. Asticot? Yes, it is Della Robbia. The Comte de Verneuil
is a great collector."

Then for the first time I looked about the room, and I caught my breath
as I realised its wealth and luxury. For a time I forgot Paragot, lost
in a dream of Florentine tapestries, priceless cabinets, porcelain,
silver, pictures, richly toned rugs, chairs with rhythmic lines, all
softened into harmonious mystery by the shaded light of the lamps. At
the end of a further room just visible through the looped curtains a
great piece of statuary gleamed white. I had never entered such a room
in my life before. My master had taken me through the show apartments of
great houses and palaces, but they were uninhabited, wanted the human
touch. It had not occurred to me that men and women could have such
wonder as their daily environment, or could invest it with the
indefinable charm of intimacy. I turned and looked at Joanna as she sat
by the Della Robbia chimney-piece, gracious and distinguished, and
Joanna became merged in the Countess de Verneuil, the great lady, as far
removed from me as my little bare attic from this treasure house of
luxury. She wore the room, so to speak, as I wore the attic. Overcome
by sudden timidity I