had been told that my hair ought to
be cut. Then, I ought to have sat down and continued a short story I had
made a fine beginning of, about a poverty-stricken young lady finding an
emerald necklace. The plot was most exciting and the ending possessed
what the editors call a good punch. I had a plethora of things to do,
wherefore I lighted my pipe and pondered upon what to begin with, seated
the while in front of my window and observing the houses opposite.

It took me but a moment to decide that quietude would be wisdom. How
could I accomplish anything requiring judgment and calmness of mind,
while I was so obsessed with problems of many kinds! What would be the
effect of that letter on Frances? Would it make her feel so badly, that
she would be unable to go to Gordon's on the next day? Why had my friend
first manifested eagerness to make another picture of Frances, then
refused to employ her, and, finally, risked breaking his neck in his
haste to have me make an appointment with her?

I have always been a poor hand at riddles and actually resent being
asked why a chicken crosses the road. Such foolish queries constitute a
form of amusement quite unable to appeal to me. I dislike problems and
complicated things that have to be solved. Once, I tried to write a
detective story, but was wise enough to tear up the thing as soon as it
was finished. In the first place, it looked like an effort to encourage
crime, which I abhor, and my detective was so transparent and ingenuous
that an infant would have penetrated his wiles. He was positively
sheeplike in his mansuetude, whereas I had intended to make him a stern
avenger of virtue.

An hour went by, and then another, during which I rushed to the
balustrade on the landing every time I heard the front door opening.
Disappointment came so often that I determined to move no more, until I
could hear their voices. Since the stairs make Frieda quite breathless,
she insists on talking all the time while she climbs them, and her
puffing carries up at least two flights.

Finally, I heard them. For a wonder Frieda was silent, but there was no
mistaking her ponderous step. Frances came behind, carrying Baby Paul.
They came to my room, hurrying across the landing. The young mother
looked at me, one corner of her lips twitching nervously.

"David!" she cried. "Oh, David! There--there are two women called Madame
Paul Dupont and--and the other one got my letter! She came to the
Consulat