t speak.

Whether he imagined what he wished the most, or whether she, bending,
actually touched her lips to his, he could not have said, but satisfied
that she loved him, he arose and staggered blindly from the room.

XVI

YOU ARE THE KING OF KROVITCH

At about the same time the Krovitzers were leaving the house on the
Boulevard S. Michel, one of those little comedies from real life was
being enacted in the attic studio of Eugene Delmotte. Its finale was to
be influenced considerably by their actions. The artist was to be
transported by them from Hadean depths of despair to Olympian heights of
rejoicing.

His disordered locks, beret upon the floor, red tie askew, if not his
tragic, rolling eyes and clenched fists, would have apprised Mlle. Marie
that all was not as it should be with M. Delmotte. With full
appreciation of the effectiveness of the gesture, the artist threw
himself into a large chair before an unfinished canvas of heroic
dimensions. He buried his face in his hands. He groaned. This was too
much for Marie. She approached. Laying a hesitating hand upon his
shoulder, she looked down with real concern at the bowed, curly head.

"And Pere Caros will not wait for the rent?" she queried.

"No, curse him," came from between the locked fingers.

"But 'Gene," persisted the girl as though puzzled, "I thought that
Harjes, the banker, always paid you an income."

"So he did until to-day. I went there, to be told that, to their regret,
my unknown benefactor had not sent them the usual monthly remittance.
They regretted also that their foolish rules prevented them advancing me
as much as a sou. No reasons given, no names disclosed. I haven't a
centime. Not a canvas can I sell. I've fasted since yesterday morning."

"Why, 'Gene?" she inquired innocently. Her mind was occupied with the
puzzle of the income which, womanlike, engrossed her entire curiosity.

"Huh," he sniffed bitterly, "because I had to. I haven't even paints
with which to complete my masterpiece."

He turned, the personification of despair, to regard the painting
against the wall.

"Have you no clues as to the source of the income?" she asked, her mind
clinging tenaciously to that unsettled question. "Have you no relatives?
No one you could ask to assist you?"

"Only slight memories dating back to early childhood--the remembrance of
a servant's face. Here is the tale, Marie. A thousand times I have gone
over it to myself, only to b