rt to pawn for coffee and
coal. There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs without.

"It's the fellows coming to take my statuette," said Fairfax.

"It's the tailor, the bootmaker and the shirtmaker," said Dearborn. "Go
behind the screen, Tony--run to Monte Carlo."

There was a tap at the door and a cheerful voice called--

"Mr. Rainsford, _c'est moi_."

"It is Potowski. I will have to let him in, Bob. Here's all Paris for
you. You wanted it."

He opened the door for Count Potowski.

The Polish singer came quickly in, his silk hat and his cane in his
hand. He looked around brightly.

"You don't hide from me," he said. "I have a fatal grasp when I take
hold. You never call on me, Monsieur--so I call on you. Guerrea!--which
means in Polish what 'altro' means in Italian, 'Doch' in German, 'Voila'
in French, and in unenthusiastic English, nothing at all."

Fairfax presented the Count to Dearborn, who beamed on him, amused, and
Potowski glanced at the cold, cheerless Bohemia. It was meagre. It was
cold. Privation was apparent. The place was not without a charm, and it
had distinction. There were the evidences of intense work, of devotion
to the ideal. There were the evidences of good taste and good breeding.
The few bits of furniture were old and had been bought for a song, but
selected with judgment. Fairfax's statuette waited on its pedestal to be
carried away--in the winter light, softened and subdued by mist, Mrs.
Fairfax read in her chair. Dearborn's table, strewn with his papers and
books, told of hours spent at a beloved labour. There was nothing
material to attract--no studio properties or decorations to speak of.
Two long divans were placed against a wall of agreeable colour. There
was nothing but the spirit of art and work, and the spirit of youth as
well, but Potowski was delighted. He pointed to the statuette.

"This," he said, "is the lovely lady with whom you have been shut up all
these days. It is charming, Monsieur."

"It is a study of my mother as I remember her."

"I salute it," said Potowski, making a little inclination. "I salute
_you_. It is beautiful." He put his hand on Fairfax's arm. "You do my
wife. You do the Contessa," said Potowski, "the same. I adore it. It
looks my wife. It might be her, Monsieur. But all beauty is alike, is
not it? One lovely woman is all women. Are you not of my opinion?"

He swam toward Dearborn who was fascinated by Potowski's overcoat lined
with fur, and wi