occurred to him.

"No, it will not be amusing to you," repeated Regnault. "For this
good Buscarlet it is another thing. I shall keep him busy. You like
that, don'it you, Emile?"

Poor Buscarlet choked and gurgled. Regnault laughed softly.

"Take the lamp, Emile," he said, "and carry it to 'The Dancer.' I
want to see it."

Buscarlet was eager to do his bidding. O'Neill frowned as he picked
up the lamp.

"Careful," he said, in a low voice to Regnault.

"Oh," said Regnault, "this is not an emotion." He laughed again.

Across the room Buscarlet lifted the shade from the lamp and held it
up. Again there came into view the white and scarlet of the picture,
the high light on the bare shoulder, the warm tint of the naked arm,
the cheap diablerie of the posture, the splendid rebellion of the
face. Regnault turned and stared at it under drawn brows.

"Thank you, Emile," he said at last, and lay back on his pillow. For
an instant of forgetfulness his delicate face was ingenuous and
expressive; he caught himself back to control as he met O'Neill's
eyes.

"Il est un age dans la vie Ou chaque reve doit finir, Un age ou l'ame
recueillie A besoin de se souvenir,"

he quoted softly. Buscarlet was fitting the shade on the lamp again.

"I think," Regnault went on, "that I have come to that, after all. He
told you, eh? Buscarlet told you that she--Lola--is my wife?"

"Yes," answered O'Neill. "Would you like me to send for her?"

"She would not come for that," said Regnault. He was studying the
young man's face with bright eyes. "Ah," he sighed; "you don't know
these things. We parted--of course; but not in weariness, not in the
grey staleness of fatigue and boredom. No; but in a splendid wreck of
wrath and jealousy and hatred. We did not run aground tamely; we
split in vehemence on the very rock of discord. She would not come
for a letter."

"Is she in Paris?" asked O'Neill.

"No, in Spain," answered Regnault. "At Ronda, in a great house on the
edge of the hill, a house of small windows and strong doors. She is
religious, Lola is; she fears hell. Let me see; she must be near to
fifty now. It is twenty years and more since I saw her."

"But if I wrote," began O'Neill again.

"She would not come for a letter," persisted Regnault. "What would
you write? 'He is dying,' you would say, 'Poof!' she would answer,
'he has been dead this twenty years to me.'"

"Well, then, what do you suggest?"

Regnault opened his eyes and