al, a Turenne or Conde of our country, had filled it with the
portraits of his ancestors, dating back to the Thirty Years' War;
heroes in white cuirasses with wigs of the time of Louis XIV. Amongst
them hung landscapes of the Duesseldorf school of painting. Pieces of
old furniture, restored and gilded, stood side by side with chairs and
easy-chairs of a more modern date. The whole room seemed to breathe an
atmosphere of peace and domestic love.

Presently the Baroness joined us; she was charming, almost cordial,
simple and kind. But there was a certain stiffness in her manner,
a suspicion of embarrassment which chilled me until I discovered a
reason for it in the sound of voices which came from an adjacent room.
I concluded that she had other visitors, and apologised for having
called at an inconvenient time. They were playing whist in the next
room, and I was forthwith introduced to four members of the family: the
gentleman-in-waiting, a retired captain, and the Baroness's mother and
aunt.

As soon as the old people had sat down again to play, we younger ones
began to talk. The Baron mentioned his great love of painting. A
scholarship, granted him by the late King Charles XV, had enabled him
to pursue his studies at Duesseldorf. This fact constituted a point of
contact between us, for I had had a scholarship from the same king,
only in my case it had been granted for literary purposes.

We discussed painting, the theatre, the personality of our patron.
But gradually the flow of conversation ceased, largely checked by the
whist players, who joined in every now and then, laying rude fingers on
sensitive spots, tearing open scarcely healed wounds. I began to feel
ill at ease in this heterogeneous society and rose to go. The Baron and
his wife, who accompanied me to the door, dropped their constrained
manner as soon as they were out of earshot of the old people. They
asked me to a friendly dinner on the following Saturday, and after a
little chat in the passage we parted as old friends.




II


Punctually at three 