“2. What he intends to do--whether he is ambitious, and, if so, in what way? “3. Lastly, tell me shortly what seem to you to be his means of existence, his abilities, his inclinations and his tastes.... “Don’t try to see me for the present; I am in an unsociable mood. You can give me the information I ask just as well by letter. If I am inclined to talk or if I feel the final departure is at hand, I will let you know. “Yours affecˡʸ, “JUSTE-AGÉNOR DE BARAGLIOUL. “P.S. Don’t let it appear that you come from me. The young man knows nothing of me and must continue to know nothing. “Lafcadio Wluiki is now nineteen--a Roumanian subject--an orphan. “I have looked at your last book. If after that you don’t get into the Academy, such rubbish is unpardonable.” There was no denying it, Julius’s last book had not been well received. In spite of his fatigue, the novelist ran his eye over a bundle of newspaper cuttings, in which he found his name mentioned with scant indulgence. Then he opened a window and breathed for a moment the misty night air. Julius’s study windows looked on to the gardens of an Embassy--pools of lustral shadow, where eyes and mind could cleanse themselves from the squalor of the streets and from the meannesses of the world. The pure and thrilling note of a blackbird held him listening a moment or two.... Then he went back to the bedroom where Marguerite was already asleep. As he was afraid of insomnia he took from the chest of drawers a bottle of orange-flower water which he frequently used. Ever careful to observe conjugal courtesy, he had taken the precaution of lowering the wick of the lamp, before placing it where it would be least likely to disturb the sleeper; but a slight tinkling of the glass as he put it down after he had finished drinking, reached Marguerite, where she lay plunged in unconsciousness; she gave an animal grunt and turned to the wall. Julius, glad of an excuse for considering her awake, drew near the bed and asked as he began to undress: “Would you like to hear what my father says about my book?” “Oh, my dear, your poor father has no feeling for literature. You’ve told me so a hundred times,” murmured Marguerite whose one desire was to go on sleeping. But Julius’s heart was too full. “He says it’s unpardonable rubbish.” There was a long silence, during which Marguerite sank once more into the depths of slumber. Julius was already resigning himself to uncompanioned solitude, when, making a desperate effort for his sake, she rose again to the surface: “I hope you’re not going to be upset about it.”