The man conducted him to a waiting-room near as desert and ill-appointed as the vestibule. The whole house seemed a vast and melancholy barrow--an imprisoned vacancy containing only the personal harness and appointments of some lordly dead. Its equipments would appear to have conformed themselves to its service, and that was reduced to a minimum. Ned heard the sound of a listed footfall, and turned to meet the master of Méricourt. M. de St Denys came in with the visitor’s letter in his hand. He was in a yellow morning wrapper that was in cheerful contrast with his sombre surroundings, and a tentative small smile was on his lips. He wore his own hair, bright brown and unpowdered, and tied into a neck ribbon. A little artificial bloom, like the meal on a butterfly’s wing, was laid upon his cheeks to hide the ravages of dissipation, but the injected eyes above were significant of fever. He was, nevertheless, a pretty creature of his inches (and they might have run to seventy or so)--exhilarating, forcible, convincing as a man. Only, as to that, his mouth was the hyperbolic expression, justifying his sex rather by force of appetite than of combativeness. “M. le Vicomte Murk?” said he, raising his eyebrows. “Prospective, monsieur,” said Ned; “but as yet----” “Ah, ha!” broke in the other, showing his teeth liberally, “you wait to step into old shoes. It was my case once--five years ago. I had not the pleasure to know your uncle, M. le Vicomte.” “Pardon, monsieur. I am a plain gentleman.” “Truly? We order things otherwise here--for the present, monsieur--for the present.” Obviously he had no least recollection of the _contretemps_ of the previous evening. “And you are travelling for experience?” (He referred lightly to the letter in his hand, and lightly laughed.) “Possibly you shall acquire that, of a kind, in little rustic Méricourt. We are in advance of our times here--locusts of the Apocalypse, monsieur, having orders to respect only the seal of God.” “_We_, generically, monsieur would say?” “Oh! I include myself.” (He made a comprehensive gesture with his hand.) “Behold the monastic earnest of my renunciation. I am vowed to a religion of socialism that takes no account of superfluous frippery. I devote my pen and” (he laughed again) “dissipate my fortune to the cause of universal happiness.” “Yourself thereby, I presume, securing the lion’s share.” “Of happiness? Truly, I think, I have hit upon the right creed for a spendthrift. But my conscience is the real motive power, monsieur, though you may be cynical of its methods.” He spoke with an undernote of some ambiguity. It might have signified deprecation, or the merest suggestion of mockery. “And how shall the sacrifice of your fortune promote the common happiness?” said Ned.