“You misunderstand me. In life one corrects _oneself_--one improves _oneself_--so people say; but one can’t correct what one _does_. It’s the power of revising that makes writing such a colourless affair--such a....” (He left his sentence unfinished.) “Yes! that’s what seems to me so fine about life. It’s like fresco-painting--erasures aren’t allowed.” “Would there be much to erase in your life?” “No ... not much so far.... And as one can’t....” Lafcadio was silent a moment, and then: “All the same, it was because I wanted to make an erasure that I flung my pocket-book into the fire!... Too late--as you see! You must admit, however, that you didn’t understand what it was all about.” No! Julius would never admit that. “Will you allow me a few questions?” he said, by way of answer. Lafcadio rose to his feet so abruptly that Julius thought he was going to make off on the spot; but he only went up to the window and, raising the muslin curtain: “Is this garden yours?” he asked. “No,” said Julius. “M. de Baraglioul, I have hitherto allowed no one to pry in the smallest degree into my life,” went on Lafcadio without turning round. Then, as he walked back towards Julius, who had begun to take him for nothing more than a schoolboy: “But to-day is a red-letter day; for once in my life I will give myself a holiday. Put your questions--I undertake to answer them all.... Oh! let me tell you first that I have turned away that young baggage who showed you into my room yesterday.” Julius thought it proper to put on an air of concern. “Because of me? Really....” “Pooh! I had been looking for an excuse to get rid of her for some time past.” “Were you ... m ... m ... living with her?” asked Julius, rather awkwardly. “Yes; for health’s sake.... But as little as possible, and in memory of a friend of mine whose mistress she had been.” “Monsieur Protos, perhaps?” ventured Julius, who was now firmly determined to stifle his indignation--his disgust--his reprobation--and to show--on this first occasion--no more of his astonishment than was necessary to make his rejoinders sufficiently lively. “Yes, Protos,” replied Lafcadio, brimming over with laughter. “Would you like to know about Protos?” “To know something of your friends would be perhaps a step towards knowing you.” “He was an Italian of the name of.... My word, I’ve forgotten, and it’s of no consequence. The other boys--even the masters--never called him anything but Protos from the day he unexpectedly carried off a first for Greek composition.” “I don’t remember ever having been first myself,” said Julius, to encourage confidence, “but, like you, I have always wanted to be friends with those who were. So Protos ...?”