"Yes?"
"Will you write a letter for me to say that I'm unwell and can't travel away from Arles?"
Elaine looked at him searchingly. "It's certainly a most unusual request to make of a mere acquaintance," she remarked.
"I have good reasons for asking it."
"Then I'll do what you ask."
"Would you mind coming round to my rooms?"
"Certainly; if you'll wait until I've finished this sketch."
She worked on in silence for another quarter of an hour, completing her picture with rapid, vigorous brush-strokes. Then he took up her campstool and easel, and they walked together alongside the Roman aqueduct to the centre of the town, under an avenue of tall, spreading plane trees, yellow with the first delicate leaves of Spring like the feathers of a newborn chick.
The sunshine caressed the little garden of the Villa Clémentine, coquetting with the flaming cannas, twinkling amongst the pebbles of the paths, stroking the backs of the lazy goldfish. Seating Elaine in the arbour, Rivière brought out pen and ink and a sheet of paper headed "Hotel du Forum, Place du Forum, Arles," which he happened to have kept by accident from his visit to the town. Then he dictated a formal letter to Mrs Matheson, explaining that he was laid up with a touch of fever and would not be able to join her at Monte Carlo. The illness was not serious, and there was no cause for anxiety. Nevertheless it kept him tied. He hoped she would excuse him.
"There will be a Nîmes postmark on the envelope," commented Elaine as she wrote the address.