would be glad to know whether Count Julius de Baraglioul is not in need of a secretary. He sent it up. A manservant at last came to where he was waiting in the hall, led him along various passages and ushered him in to where Julius was sitting. His first glance showed Lafcadio a copy of the _Corriere della Sera_, which had been thrown down in a corner of the room. On a table in the middle a large, uncorked bottle of eau-de-Cologne was exhaling its powerful perfume. Julius held out his arms. “Lafcadio! My dear fellow!... How very glad I am to see you!” His ruffled hair waved in agitated fashion on his temples; he seemed strangely excited; in one hand he held a black spotted handkerchief, with which he fanned himself. “You are certainly one of the persons I least expected to see, but the one in the world I was most wanting to talk to this evening.... Was it Madame Carola who told you I was here?” “What an odd question!” “Why! as I’ve just met her.... I’m not sure, though, that she saw me.” “Carola! Is she in Rome?” “Didn’t you know?” “I’ve just this minute arrived from Sicily and you are the first person I have seen. I’ve no desire to see her.” “I thought she was looking extremely pretty----” “You’re not hard to please.” “I mean, prettier than she did in Paris.” “Exoticism, no doubt--but if you’re feeling randy....” “Lafcadio! Such language from you to me isn’t permissible.” Julius tried to look severe, but only succeeded in pulling a face. He went on: “You find me in a great state of agitation. I’m at a turning-point of my career. My head is burning and I feel, as it were, giddy all over, as if I were going to evaporate. I have come to Rome for a sociological congress, and during the three days I’ve spent here I’ve been going from surprise to surprise. Your arrival is the finishing touch.... I don’t recognise myself any longer.” He was striding about the room; suddenly he stopped beside the table, seized the bottle, poured a stream of scent on to his handkerchief, applied it like a compress to his forehead and left it there. “My dear young friend--if you’ll allow me to call you so.... My new book! I think I’ve got the hang of it. The way in which you spoke to me of _On the Heights_ in Paris, makes me think that you will not find this one uninteresting.” His feet sketched a kind of pirouette; the handkerchief fell to the ground. Lafcadio hastened to pick it up and, as he was stooping, he felt Julius’s hand laid gently on his shoulder, just as once before he had felt Juste-Agénor’s. Lafcadio smiled and raised himself. “I’ve known you such a short time,” said Julius, “and yet this evening I can’t help talking to you like a....” He stopped. “I’m listening like a brother, Monsieur de Baraglioul,” Lafcadio was emboldened to take up the words, “--since you allow me to.”