s before he found out why I was
drawn to the impresario; his discovery was hailed with a sudden laugh
and a glance, but he put nothing into words. Both to him and to me the
thing was richer for reticence; in the old phrase, the drapery enhanced
the charms which it did not hide.

A day came when I asked the husband to luncheon with me. I sent
Vohrenlorf away; we sat down together, Struboff swelling with pride,
seeing himself telling the story in the wings, meditating the
appearance and multiplication of paragraphs. I said not a word to
discourage the visions; we talked of how Coralie should make fame and he
money; he grew enthusiastic, guttural, and severe on the Steinberg. I
ordered more Steinberg, and fished for more enthusiasm. I put my purse
at his disposal; he dipped his fingers deep, with an anxious furtive
eagerness. The loan was made, or at least pledged, before it flashed
across my brain that the money was destined for Wetter--he wanted to pay
off Wetter. We were nearing the desired ground.

"My dear M. Struboff," said I, "you must not allow yourself to be
embarrassed. Great properties are slow to develop; but I have patience
with my investments. Clear yourself of all claims. Money troubles
fritter away a man's brains, and you want yours."

He muttered something about temporary scarcity.

"It would be intolerable that madame should be bothered with such
matters," I said.

He gulped down his Steinberg and gave a snort. The sound was eloquent,
although not sweet. I filled his glass and handed him a cigar. He drank
the wine, but laid the cigar on the table and rested his head on his
hand.

"And women like to have money about," I pursued, looking at the veins on
his forehead.

"I've squandered money on her," he said. "Good money."

"Yes, yes. One's love seeks every mode of expression. I'm sure she's
grateful."

He raised his eyes and looked at me. I was smoking composedly.

"Were you once in love with my wife?" he asked bluntly. His deference
wore away under the corrosion of Steinberg and distress.

"Let us choose our words, my dear M. Struboff. Once I professed
attachment to Mlle. Mansoni."

"She loved you?"

"It is discourteous not to accept any impression that a lady wishes to
convey to you," I answered, smiling.

"Ah, you know her!" he cried, bringing his fist down on the table.

"Not the least in the world," I assured him. "Her beauty, her charm, her
genius--yes, we all know those. But her s