yearning in his heart and homesickness for France, he returned into the city with the May. He could scarcely look up at the windows of the old studio on the quays. He rented a barren place in the Vaugirard quarter and began his work in terrible earnestness.
Now, as he waited for his visitor, he wondered if Mary Cedersholm had visited the Salon, if with others she had stood before his sculpture. His servant announced "Monsieur Cedersholm," then let in the visitor and shut the door behind him. Cedersholm entered the vast studio in the soft light of late afternoon with which the spring twilight, rapidly withdrawing, filled the room. Antony did not stir from his chair, where he sat enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.
The small man—Fairfax had forgotten how small he was—entered cautiously as though he were entering the room of a foe, which, indeed, he was doing, without being aware of it. Fairfax remembered that he had seen Cedersholm wearing a single eyeglass, and now spectacles of extraordinary thickness covered his eyes. He evidently saw with difficulty. As Fairfax did not rise to greet him, Cedersholm approached, saying tentatively—
"Mr. Rainsford? I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Rainsford."
"Yes," said Fairfax curtly, "I am here. Sit down, will you?"
His lame foot, which would have disclosed his identity, was withdrawn under his chair.
"I have just come from the Soudan," said Cedersholm, "where I had a sunstroke of the eyes. I see badly."
"Blindness," said Fairfax shortly, "is a common failing, but many of us don't know we have anything the matter with our eyes."
"It is, however, a tragedy for a sculptor," said Cedersholm, taking the chair to which Fairfax had pointed.
From the box on the table Fairfax offered his guest a cigar, which was refused. Antony lit a fresh one; it was evident he had not been recognized.