Again Vincent was sympathetic, and the poor little tale came out. How Edward, eight years old, and greedy as became his little years, had sneaked down, night-clad, to pick among the outcomings of a dinner-party, and how, in the hall, dark with the light of an "artistic" coloured glass lantern, a white figure had suddenly faced him--leaned towards him it seemed, pointed lead-white hands at his heart. That next day, finding him weak from his fainting fit, had shown the horror to be but a statue, a new purchase of his father's, had mattered not one whit. Edward had shared Vincent's room, and Vincent, alone of all men, shared Edward's secret. And now, in Paris, Rose speeding away towards Cannes, Vincent said: "Let's look in at the Musee Grevin." The Musee Grevin is a wax-work show. Your mind, at the word, flies instantly to the excellent exhibition founded by the worthy Madame Tussaud, and you think you know what wax-works mean. But you are wrong. The exhibition of Madame Tussaud--in these days, at any rate--is the work of _bourgeois_ for a _bourgeois_ class. The Musee Grevin contains the work of artists for a nation of artists. Wax, modelled and retouched till it seems as near life as death is: this is what one sees at the Musee Grevin. "Let's look in at the Musee Grevin," said Vincent. He remembered the pleasant thrill the Musee had given him, and wondered what sort of a thrill it would give his friend. "I hate museums," said Edward. "This isn't a museum," Vincent said, and truly; "it's just wax-works." "All right," said Edward indifferently. And they went. They reached the doors of the Musee in the grey-brown dusk of a February evening. One walks along a bare, narrow corridor, much like the entrance to the stalls of the Standard Theatre, and such daylight as there may be fades away behind one, and one finds oneself in a square hall, heavily decorated, and displaying with its electric lights Loie Fuller in her accordion-pleated skirts, and one or two other figures not designed to quicken the pulse. "It's very like Madame Tussaud's," said Edward. "Yes," Vincent said; "isn't it?" Then they passed through an arch, and behold, a long room with waxen groups life-like behind glass--the _coulisses_ of the Opera, Kitchener at Fashoda--this last with a desert background lit by something convincingly like desert sunlight. "By Jove!" said Edward, "that's jolly good." "Yes," said Vincent again; "isn't it?" Edward's interest grew. The things were so convincing, so very nearly alive. Given the right angle, their glass eyes met one's own, and seemed to exchange with one meaning glances. Vincent led the way to an arched door labelled: "Gallerie de la Revolution."