Suzanne thought she was very clever--and not without reason; but by being too clever people often defeat their own ends. Accustomed to confound love and mere gallantry, she knew nothing of the generous expansion of feeling to be found in one so young as the object of her semi-romantic, semi-sensual caprice. She presumed that the insidious accusation she had thrown out against Claude would put René on his guard. It resulted, however, in giving the poet an irresistible desire to talk to Larcher. It grieved him to think that the latter should entertain a false opinion of Madame Moraines. Which of us, at twenty-five, has not felt a desire that our dearest friend should reserve a special place in his esteem for the woman we loved? It is as strong then as is at forty the wise desire to hide ourselves most of all from that same friend. René's first act on leaving Suzanne was to proceed at once to the Rue de Varenne. He had not been to see Claude since the day when he had met Colette in his rooms, and as he passed through the gateway and made his way across the spacious courtyard he could not help comparing this visit with his last. They were separated by a very few hours only, but yet by what a gulf! The poet was a prey to that fever of delight which makes reasoning impossible. He did not reflect that his Madonna had been wonderfully clever in bringing matters to such a pass so soon. The amazing rapidity with which his hopes were being realised only delighted him, and showed him how strong his love really was. He felt so light and happy that he bounded up the old staircase two steps at a time, just as he used to do when as a boy he came home from school after reaching the top of the class. To-day Larcher's man admitted him without the slightest hesitation, but he wore such a long face that René asked him what was the matter. 'It isn't right, sir,' sighed Ferdinand, shaking his head. 'Master has been at it now for forty-eight hours--writing, writing, writing--and with only about six hours' sleep altogether. You ought really to tell him, sir, that he'll damage his constitution. Why can't he get into a nice, comfortable habit of working a little every day, like everybody else?' The man's wise remonstrances prepared René for the sight that he knew so well--the 'den' in which he had seen Colette enthroned turned into a writer's workshop. He went in. The broad leather-covered couch on which the graceful but frivolous actress had reclined was now covered with sheets of paper flung down and covered with great straggling characters written in haste; similar sheets, all torn or crumpled, being strewn about the floor, and the chimney-piece encumbered with half-opened bundles of proofs.