air of the highest importance."

He paused, throwing from his gold spectacles the glances of a blind man
and of a visionary, which kept him, despite the brutal exactitude of his
temperament, in a sort of mystical state of mind. He asked, brusquely:

"Were you in Italy this year, Madame?"

And, without giving her time to answer:

"I know, I know. You went to Rome. You have looked at the arch of
the infamous Titus, that execrable monument, where one may see the
seven-branched candlestick among the spoils of the Jews. Well, Madame,
it is a shame to the world that that monument remains standing in the
city of Rome, where the Popes have subsisted only through the art of
the Jews, financiers and money-changers. The Jews brought to Italy the
science of Greece and of the Orient. The Renaissance, Madame, is the
work of Israel. That is the truth, certain but misunderstood."

And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed.

Princess Seniavine looked at her friend from her box with the curiosity
that the beauty of women at times excited in her. She made a sign to
Paul Vence who was near her:

"Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?"

In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked
Lariviere:

"Did you see my nephew?"

"Your nephew, Le Menil?"

"Yes--Robert. He was in the theatre a moment ago."

La Briche remained pensive for a moment. Then he said:

"He came this summer to Semanville. I thought him odd. A charming
fellow, frank and intelligent. But he ought to have some occupation,
some aim in life."

The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had
hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone.

"An aim in life," repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his
companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a
scene.

Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had
finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin:

"Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful
letter. He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to
know it. He said also: 'The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and
aromatic plants. Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of
oyster-shells.' Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur
Choulette?"

While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy,
caused the door of the box to b