“Was I away then?”
“You were just married. You had gone to America with your wife.”
“Yes. I stayed a year. But when I came back why didn’t you show it to me?”
“I put it away. She wouldn’t accept it, and I didn’t want to see it, after she had gone. I never looked at it again till last spring. Paul! Do you know that picture’s been painted eighteen years, and I’ve never done anything to touch it since? Encouraging, isn’t it? Something to congratulate one’s self upon.”
The last words were accompanied by a bitter laugh. His friend was silent.
“Here comes tea,” said François, with an abrupt change of voice.
His femme de ménage entered with a tray which she placed on one of the tables. She went out, and re-entered with the spirit lamp and kettle.
“Voilà, Monsieur!”
François began to put the tea into the teapot.
“Antoinette brews it abominably; I always make it myself,” he remarked.