been
tuned yet." He struck a few notes, and made a rueful grimace. "It's
worse than ever."

"I'm afraid it never will be tuned now that I've been ill and caused so
much expense. Emile always says he will go without cigarettes to
afford it, and I say I will go without powder, but neither of us keep
our heroic resolutions, and the piano gets worse and worse."

Vardri shut down the lid with a bang.

"Well, anyway it doesn't matter," he said, "I don't want to play or do
anything; I just want to be with you."

"Bring up a chair, and sit and smoke, _mon camarade_." She held out
her hand with a gesture of invitation, and Vardri took it and kissed
it, and went back to his former position at her feet.

"Shall I read to you?" he asked. "Ah! I'd forgotten there was
something I wanted to tell you. I found a poem the other day, a
love-song of De Musset. Do you know that you lived in this very city
years ago, Fatalite, and he saw you and loved you? How else could he
have written this?

"_Avez-vous vu en Barcelone,
Une Andalouse au sein bruni,
Pale comme un beau soir d'Automne,
C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne,
La Marchesa d'Amagui._"

Arithelli listened, her eyes dilating, and a little flame of colour
creeping up under the magnolia skin that made her likeness to the woman
of the poem. Her awakening senses thrilled to the eager voice, the
riotous challenging words:

"_J'ai fait bien de chansons pour elle_."

He broke off abruptly and continued: "I hate all the rest of it. The
woman isn't like you, further on, and the lover laughs at his own
passion, and the whole thing jars. That first verse haunted me for
days after I'd read it."--The sentence was finished by a convulsive fit
of coughing, which he vainly tried to stifle.

"This is the first time to-day," he gasped, between the paroxysms.
"I'm quite well really. It's the cigarette. They often have that
effect. Don't look so worried, or I shall think you hate me for being
a nuisance."

"If you talk so foolishly I shall go."

She made an attempt to rise, but Vardri caught at her skirts. "You
won't go! You don't want to make me worse, do you? Think how sorry
you'll be if I cough and worry you all the evening!"

"Can't I get you anything? If only I were not so stupid about illness.
Don't try to talk if it makes you worse."

"I won't--if you'll stay."

To Arithelli caresses did not come easily, but during the last few
weeks she had learnt