It was decided in less than a year from the death of Dora Harrington, that the _Scala_ had done all it could for Lavirotte. Eugene O'Donnell was to tarry still a month or so, and Lavirotte decided not to leave Milan until his friend was ready to go. During these twelve months Lavirotte had been studiously quiet. He had given all his attention to his business, and if there ever had been any weakness on his part towards Luigia, the death of Dora and his visit to London seemed to have put an end to it. Daily he had seen the O'Donnells. Daily he had shaken the hands of Eugene and Nellie. Daily he had seen their boy, and danced him in his arms, or played with him, or sung to him. He had said privately to Eugene: "Once upon a time, when I was mad, I was in love with your wife. Now I think I am in love with your boy. You know I am the last living member of my race. I am still a young man, it is true, but I shall never marry. My heart is in the grave with Dora. Still I cannot help feeling that I should like to leave behind me someone with my name. It was never a great name, as you know; yet once upon a time a Lavirotte did something, and if the blood were continued, it might do something again. But all is over now, and my race is at an end. All is over, and there will be no more of mine." To such speeches as these, O'Donnell had replied jestingly, saying: "You will be a widower twice before you die. Mind, I shall be godfather to your eldest boy." Lavirotte would simply shake his head sadly, and say: "Ay, you shall be godfather, if ever there is need of one." Then he would shake his head again, and sigh, and change the subject of conversation, as though it were distasteful to him. So the time slipped away, until at last it was decided that Eugene should leave. Neither he nor Lavirotte had by this time much money left, and each felt the necessity of procuring immediate employment. When they reached London they took lodgings in Percy Street, Fitzroy Square. It was pleasant to be back once more within the sound of the familiar tongue. Italy, with its blue skies and melodious language, was a thing "to dream of, not to see." Not as in the weird poem, a thing of terror, but a thing of joy in memory, rather than of joy in experience. For, Frenchman though Lavirotte was by descent and birth, he was now more familiar with the northern idiom, and all his thoughts were framed in that tongue. Both to him and O'Donnell it was a relief to cease translating. When they were at Milan, no matter how familiar the idea which presented itself, it had to be shifted from the accustomed words into other words. Now each could listen at leisure, and drink in meanings without effort, and communicate ideas with, as it were, the primitive effort of the mere tongue.