"It will not be amusing," he said at length. "For you, I mean."
"Oh, I shall be all right," answered O'Neill, but the same thought had occurred to him.
"No, it will not be amusing to you," repeated Regnault. "For this good Buscarlet it is another thing. I shall keep him busy. You like that, don'it you, Emile?"
Poor Buscarlet choked and gurgled. Regnault laughed softly.
"Take the lamp, Emile," he said, "and carry it to 'The Dancer.' I want to see it."
Buscarlet was eager to do his bidding. O'Neill frowned as he picked up the lamp.
"Careful," he said, in a low voice to Regnault.
"Oh," said Regnault, "this is not an emotion." He laughed again.
Across the room Buscarlet lifted the shade from the lamp and held it up. Again there came into view the white and scarlet of the picture, the high light on the bare shoulder, the warm tint of the naked arm, the cheap diablerie of the posture, the splendid rebellion of the face. Regnault turned and stared at it under drawn brows.
"Thank you, Emile," he said at last, and lay back on his pillow. For an instant of forgetfulness his delicate face was ingenuous and expressive; he caught himself back to control as he met O'Neill's eyes.