The how was plain enough. Léon had asked the painter if there were no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having learnt what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into “O mon amante, O mon désir, Sachons cueillir L’heure charmante!” “Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, “your husband sings admirably well.” “He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira, critically, although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways in the upper chamber; “but it is as an actor and not as a musician.” “Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes away under one’s fingers.” “I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. “I think the good parts of it last and grow greater every day.” “Frankly, how would you advise me?” “Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished. He is obviously a very loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you know—if it were only as the possible father of your children—it is as well to keep him at his best.” “He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife. They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of good fellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and clear, they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for each other’s welfare. Castel-le-Gâchis was beginning to send up its smoke against the golden East; and the church bell was ringing six. “My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said Léon, as he and Elvira took the nearest way towards the inn, “it resuscitated a Commissary, created an English tourist, and reconciled a man and wife.” Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with reflections of his own. “They are all mad,” thought he, “all mad—but wonderfully decent.” THE END Printed by Spottiswoode, Ballantyne & Co. Ltd. Colchester, London & Eton, England