see a little of how you feel"; but he
continued with something of his old drollery: "I would like to know a
little of how _she_ feels."

"What do you mean?"

Antony's voice was so curt, and his words were so short, that Dearborn
was quick to understand that it would not be wise to touch on the
subject of the woman.

"Why, I mean, Tony, that it is a valuable study for a playwright. I
should like to understand the psychology of all characters."

Fairfax shrugged impatiently. "Confound you, you are a brute. All
artists are, I reckon. You drive your chariot over human hearts in order
to get a dramatic point."

Here the post came and with it a blue letter whose colour was familiar
to Dearborn now, and he busied himself with his own mail under the lamp.
Fairfax opened his note. It had no beginning.

* * * * *

"If it does not rain to-morrow, will you take me to Versailles? Unless
you send me word that you cannot go, I will call for you at ten o'clock.
We will drive through the Bois and lunch at the Reservoirs."

* * * * *

For a moment it seemed as though Antony would hand over his note to
Dearborn, as he had handed Mrs. Faversham's first letter the night it
came. But he replaced it in its envelope and put it in his pocket.

CHAPTER X

He wrote her that he should not be able to go to Versailles. He deserted
his day's work at Barye's and remained at home modelling. And Dearborn,
seeing Fairfax's distraction, went out early and did not return until
dark. Fairfax found himself alone again, alone with his visions, alone
with his pride, alone with powerful and new emotions.

Sometimes in January, in the middle of the month, days come that
surprise the Parisians with their inconstancy and their softness. The
sun shone out suddenly and the sky was as blue as in Italy.

Fairfax could see the people strolling along the quays, with coats open,
and the little booksellers did a thriving business and the "_bateaux
mouche_" shot off into the sunlight bound toward the suburbs which
Fairfax had learned in the summer time to know and love. Versailles
would be divine on such a day.

His hours spent at the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne must have been
impersonal. His first essay he destroyed and began again. He did not
want to bring these intimate visits suddenly to an end. But when his
sitter very courteously began to question him, he was uncommunicative.
He co