y there would be no broken marriages."

Mrs. Faversham, whom the musician entertained and amused, laughed softly
and rose, and, a man on each side of her, went into the drawing-room, to
the fire burning across the andirons. Coffee and liqueurs were brought
and put on a small table.

"Potowski is a philosopher, is he not, Mr. Rainsford? When you hear him
sing, though, you will find that his best argument."

Potowski stirred six lumps of sugar into his small coffee cup, drank the
syrup, drank a glass of liqueur with a sort of cheerful eagerness, and
stood without speaking, dangling his eyeglass and looking into the fire.
Mrs. Faversham took a deep chair and her dark, slim figure was lost in
it, and Antony, who had lit his cigarette, leaned on the chimney-piece
near her.

She glanced at him, at the deformed shoe, at his shabby clothes. He had
made his toilet as carefully as he could; his linen was spotless, his
cravat new and fashioned in a big bow. His fine, thoughtful face, lit
now by the pleasure of the evening, where spirit and courage were never
absent if other marks were there; his fine brow with the slightly
curling blond hair bright upon it, and the profound blue of his eyes--he
was different from any man she had seen, and she had known many men and
been a great favourite with them. It pleased her to think that she knew
and understood them fairly well. She was thinking what she could do for
this man. She had wondered this suddenly, the day Fairfax had met her
and left her in the Louvre; she had wondered more sincerely the evening
she left him at his door. She had asked him to her house in a spirit of
real kindness, although she had already felt his charm. Looking at him
now, she thought that no woman could see him and hear him speak, watch
him for an hour, and not be conscious of that charm. She wondered what
she could do for Mr. Rainsford.

"Sit there, won't you?"--she indicated the sofa near her--"you will find
that a comfortable place in which to listen. Count Potowski is the one
unmaterial musician I ever knew. Time and place, food or feast, make no
difference to him."

Potowski, without replying, turned abruptly and went toward the next
room, separated from the salon by glass doors. In another moment they
heard the prelude of Bohm's "Still as the Night," and then Potowski
began to sing.

CHAPTER IX

The studio underwent something of a transformation. Dearborn devoted
himself to its decoration