Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
The temptation to wait over a train and visit my old friend in his new home was very strong. I decided to do it.
I found his name on the door of a pretty little villa in an attractive street.
“Would you wait a little? The doctor is expected home at any moment,” the servant told me, as she ushered me into the drawing-room.
“Will you give my card to Mrs. Hartens?” I said.
I was rather curious to see the woman he had chosen, this dear, queer old chap, this enthusiast for Hellenic ideals and the cult of free natural beauty.
When the servant had left me alone I looked curiously around the room. I saw curtains of expensive plush, carved mahogany furniture, a clean-washed palm, heavy bronze lamps—the usual sort of things that are given for wedding presents among well-to-do people. There was nothing that could be called ugly—and yet—and this was where he lived now? This was the result of all his dreams?
But why didn’t she come?
Probably the young wife could not make up her mind whether she ought to receive her husband’s old friend in his absence.
I yawned a little. Time was flying, and I did not know when I might ever pass through this town again. I looked absent-mindedly over the table beside which I sat. On it there stood a majolica plate holding visiting cards, surrounded by large, handsomely bound books. To the right of the plate there stood a vase with fresh flowers. To the left, slightly to one side, there was a little mother-of-pearl bowl, in which lay an amulet with an engraved stone and a tiny smelling bottle of Venetian glass, the sort of thing that looks expensive and probably costs but a few soldi.