There was now a sense of soul discontent, of pitiless remorse. As if again to disenchant himself, he glanced at Mary as she, too, listened. Back of her in the vases were high branches of lilac, white and delicate, with the first beauty of spring; she sat gracefully indolent, smoking a cigarette, evidently dreaming of pleasant things. To Antony there was a blank wall now between him and his visions. How unreal everything but money seemed, and his soul stifled and his senses numbed. In this atmosphere of riches and luxury what place had he? Penniless, unknown, his stature stunted--for it had been dwarfed by his idleness. Again he heard Barye say, "_C'est dommage_." His aunt's voice, bright as silver, filled the room. He believed she was singing for him expressly, for she had chosen an English ballad--"Roll on, silvery moon." Again, with a sadness which all imaginative and poetic natures understand, his present slipped away. He was back in Albany in the cab of his engine; the air bellied in his sleeve, the air of home whipped in his veins--he saw the fields as the engine flashed by them, whitening under the moonlight as the silvery moon rolled on! How he had sweated to keep himself a man, how he had toiled to keep his hope up and to live his life well, what a fight he had made in order that his visions might declare themselves to him! When his aunt ceased to sing and people gathered around her, Tony rose and limped over to Mrs. Faversham. He put out his hand. "I must go, Mary," he said. "I have some work to do this afternoon." She smiled at him. "Don't be ridiculous, Tony." The others had moved away to speak to the Comtesse Potowski, and they were alone. "I am becoming ridiculous," said Antony, "that is true, but it is not because I am going to work." She did not seem to notice anything in his gravity. "Don't forget we are dining and driving out to Versailles; don't forget, Tony." Fairfax made no response. On his face was a pitiless look, but Mrs. Faversham, happy in her successful breakfast and enchanted with the music, did not read his expression. "I will come in to-morrow, Mary." Mrs. Faversham, turning to a man who had come up to her, still understood nothing. "Don't forget, Tony,"--she nodded at him--"this afternoon." Antony bade her good-bye. He looked back at her across the room, and she seemed to him then the greatest stranger of them all. CHAPTER XIX He went upstairs to his atelier with a strange eager hammering at his heart. For several weeks the studio had been, for him, little more than an ante-chamber--a dressing-room where he had made careful toilettes before going to Mrs. Faversham. His constant attendance upon a beautiful woman had turned him into something of a dandy, and the purchase of fine clothes and linen had eaten well into his borrowed money, which had been frankly used by Dearborn when in need. "Dearborn, wear any of my things you like, only don't get ink spots on them, for God's sake!"