Dearborn sat down on the worn sofa, drew his wallet out of his pocket, took from it a sheaf of English notes, which he held up to Fairfax.
"Count it, old chap."
Fairfax shook his head. "No; tell me how much for two years' flesh and blood and soul—how you worked here, Bob, starved here, how you felt and suffered!"
"I forget it all," said the playwright quietly; "but it can never be paid for with such chaff as this,"—he touched the notes. "But the applause, the people's voices, the tears and laughter, that will pay."
"By heaven!" exclaimed Fairfax, grasping Dearborn's hand, "I bless you for saying that!"
Dearborn regarded him quietly. "Do you think I care for money?" he said simply. "I thought you knew me better than that."
Fairfax exclaimed, "Oh, I don't know what I know or think; I am in a bad dream."
Dearborn laid the notes down on the sofa. "It is for you and me and Nora, the bunch, just as long as it lasts."
Between Dearborn and himself, since Antony's engagement, there had been a distinct reserve.
Antony lit a cigarette and Dearborn lighted his from Antony's. The two friends settled themselves comfortably. It was the close of the day. Without, as usual, rolled the sea of the Paris streets, going to, going with the river's tide, and going away from it; the impersonal noise always made for them an accompaniment not disagreeable. The last light of the spring day fell on Fairfax's uncovered work, on the damp clay with the fresh marks of his instruments. He sat in his corduroys, a red scarf at his throat, a beautiful manly figure half curled up on the divan. The last of the day's light fell too on Dearborn's reddish hair, on his fine intelligent face. Fairfax said—