"Or imprisoned for debt," said Dearborn, cheerfully, "that's more likely. The tailor doesn't believe you have gone to London, Fairfax. Try a more congenial place, Tony. Let it be Monte Carlo next time--every one goes there sooner or later." When he came back from Versailles he told Dearborn nothing about his escapade in detail, simply mentioning the fact that he had taken out a little girl to spend the day in the woods and that she had bored him in the end, and that he had had the misfortune to meet Mrs. Faversham unexpectedly. Dearborn was one of those subtle spirits who do not need to be told everything. He rated Antony for playing what he called an ungallant part to the little Bohemian. "You say her hair was like chrysanthemums and that she had violet eyes? Why, she is a priceless treasure, Tony! How could you desert her?" And several times Dearborn tried to extract something more about the deserted little girl from his friend, but it was in vain. "I am sorry," Dearborn said. "We need women, Tony--we need to see the flutter of their dresses, to watch them come and go in this little room. By Jove, I often want to open the door and invite up the concierge, the concierge's wife, his aunt 'and children three' or any, or all of Paris who would come and infuse new life into us. Anything that is real flesh and blood, to chase for a moment visions and dreams away and let us touch real hands." "You don't go out enough, old man." "And you went out too much, Fairfax. It's not going out--I want some one to come in. I want to see the studio peopled. You have grown so morose and I have become such a navvy that our points of view will be false the first thing we know." The snow had been falling lightly. There was a little fringe of it along the sill, and toward sunset it had turned cold, and under the winter fog the sun hung like an orange ball behind a veil. The Seine flowed tawny and yellow under their eyes, as they stood together talking in the window. Fairfax was in his painting clothes, the playwright in his beloved dressing-gown that Fairfax had not the heart to pawn for coffee and coal. There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs without. "It's the fellows coming to take my statuette," said Fairfax. "It's the tailor, the bootmaker and the shirtmaker," said Dearborn. "Go behind the screen, Tony--run to Monte Carlo." There was a tap at the door and a cheerful voice called-- "Mr. Rainsford, _c'est moi_." "It is Potowski. I will have to let him in, Bob. Here's all Paris for you. You wanted it." He opened the door for Count Potowski. The Polish singer came quickly in, his silk hat and his cane in his hand. He looked around brightly. "You don't hide from me," he said. "I have a fatal grasp when I take hold. You never call on me, Monsieur--so I call on you. Guerrea!--which means in Polish what 'altro' means in Italian, 'Doch' in German, 'Voila' in French, and in unenthusiastic English, nothing at all."