"I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a leisurely way as you hope to."

"Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and how to go to work to obtain it."

"I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next Sunday."

"Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply.

"Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on that day."

"I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry."

I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at him, he seemed slightly embarra.s.sed, although I may have erred in so thinking.

Frieda seized upon the chocolates, greedily. She is one of those dear stout people, who a.s.sure you that they hardly ever eat anything and whom one always finds endowed with a fine appet.i.te.

"It's too bad about Baby Paul," she said. "He is yet too young to be stuffed with sweets or amused with toys."

"I presume that a nursling is the only really normal human being,"

remarked Gordon. "He possesses but the most natural desires, has no ambitions unconnected with feeding and sleeping, and expresses his emotions without concealment. Affectation is foreign to him, and his virtues and vices are still in abeyance."

"Paul," declared Frances, indignantly, "is extremely intelligent and has no vices at all."

"I stand corrected, Mrs. Dupont. He is the exception, of course, and I only spoke in general. Frieda, my dear, won't you be so obliging as to open the piano and play something for us? I don't suppose it will awaken the baby, will it?"

"He just loves music," a.s.serted his mother. "When I play, he often opens his eyes and listens quietly, ever so long. I know that it pleases him, ever so much. His--oh! He must have music in his soul! How--how could it be otherwise?"

Frieda hurried to the piano and opened it, after giving the stool a couple of turns. She began with some Mendelssohn. Frances was holding her baby in her arms, her wonderful head bent towards the little one, with a curve of her neck so graceful that it fascinated me. Gordon was also looking at her with a queer, eager look upon his features. He knew as well as I that she had heard again some vibrant music of former days, had felt the sound-waves that trembled in her own soul, and that, to her, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a lost happiness.

"Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some Chopin."

At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and, in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano, though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand; what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution.

Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips.

I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most wonderful musicians of the world.

Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berceuse_." Then the young mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and sweetness with a blessed peace of soul.

When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about, searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the street or, even, I may attempt to read books upside down. Is it possible that Gordon suffers from similar limitations and needs to muse and toil and delve before he can bring out the art that is in him?

Only yesterday I saw in the paper that he led a cotillon at the Van Rossums. Moreover, at the Winter Exhibition I had the shock of my life.

I hurried there to see again the "Mother and Child," instead of which I found his signature on the portrait of a railroad president. The papers spoke of it as a wonderful painting, and one of them reproduced it. I freely acknowledge that it deserves all the encomiums lavished upon it, for it is a bold and earnest piece of work. But he has never done anything like the picture of Frances.

I met him there and looked at him, questioningly. He understood me at once.

"I'll get half the financial big guns now," he told me coolly, and left me to greet a millionaire's bride.

I am not so foolish as to think he can be in love with Frances, and I doubt very much whether he is in love with any one else, in spite of the gossip that has reached me. No, he must simply be thinking of some great composition with which he expects, in his own good time, to take the world by storm. And yet, what if I should be mistaken? The mere idea makes me feel very cold and uncomfortable, for no reason that I know of.

When he finally took his leave, he thanked Frieda for playing to us, and said good-by to Frances as perfunctorily as he does everything else. We began to clean up the teacups, and Frieda folded the frivolous little tablecloth she has contributed to my outfit and put it away, while Frances and I quarreled.

"I am not going," she said firmly.

"You are utterly mistaken," I insisted, "and you're a bold, mad, rebellious creature. You will go at once and put on your best hat, and your cloak, and dab powder on your nose, if it will make you happy, and come along like a good child."

"But what is the use of my paying board to Mrs. Milliken and then having you spend money for dinners at restaurants?" she objected.

"The use is obvious. It affords us the joy of permitting ourselves, once in a blue moon, to behave like spendthrifts; it allows us to indulge in the company of the young and ambitious, as well as of the old and foolish. Moreover, an occasional change of diet was recommended by Hippocrates. Who are you to rebel against the most ancient and respectable medical authority, pray?"

"It is utterly wrong," she persisted. "I am always accepting your kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return, and--and----"

She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoa.r.s.e and m.u.f.fled as ever, and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any, good.

"My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then, she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready.

There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you want me to."

So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often rebels like this, yet generally succ.u.mbs to our wiles. The pair of us, fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against.

Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers, finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I have ordered the newsman at the corner to deliver me the Sunday number regularly. But to-day she has been busy with a lot of mending so that it remained unopened. My first glance revealed a column giving a list of unclaimed letters in the hands of the French Consul. There was one for Madame Paul Dupont, it appeared.

I seized the paper and ran with it to the door of her room. My hand was already lifted to knock, when I bethought myself that a delay of a few minutes would be unimportant, and that it was best to run no chances of interfering with Baby Paul's entertainment. I returned to my room and paced up and down the worn Brussels. She had often told me how sorry she was that she had never heard from her late husband's parents. This letter, in all probabilities, was from them. If I told Frances about it immediately, she would worry over it until next day. Why not wait at least until our return from Camus, or even until the morning? If she knew about it, she would probably not have a wink of sleep. I determined to postpone the announcement.

Poor child! She will be harrowed by that letter. It will give her such details as the old people have been able to obtain and bring the tragedy back to her. She will read the lines breathlessly. The months that have gone by have a.s.suaged her pain a little, I think, but, now, it will return in full force, as poignant as ever. I am sorry that I looked at that paper. If I had put it aside as I often do, without even looking at it, I should never have known anything about that letter and it might have been better for her peace of mind. Now, of course, I feel bound to let her know, but, at least, I will let her have a tranquil night!

How keen and shrewd women are! No sooner did they return to my room, all primped up and ready to go, with Baby Paul clad in his best, than Frieda innocently asked what was the matter with me. Frances also asked if I were angry. Had she made me wait too long?

I was compelled to declare that my feelings were in apple-pie order, that happiness reigned in my bosom and that I enjoyed waiting, before they were satisfied. I wish my emotions did not show so plainly on my face. It is for this reason, I suppose, that Gordon once adjured me never to learn the ancient game of draw-poker. He said that fleecing me would be child's play for the merest beginner.

We went down and directed our steps towards Madame Felicie Smith's shop.

One can get in, even on Sundays, since the good woman lives there. She is always delighted to mind Paul for a couple of hours, and this arrangement is far superior to the old one, which entailed a long westerly jaunt to the home of the washerlady, besides the climbing of many stairs.

The folding baby carriage was left at home, for the walk is but a short one and Frances loves to carry her little one. My offer to a.s.sume the charge was at once rejected, Frieda complaining that even she was considered somewhat unreliable as a beast of burden. Frances laughed, cheerfully, but held on to her treasure. She is no longer nervous and fretful when leaving Baby Paul for a couple of hours, knowing that, if he happens to awaken, there will be soothing words of affection for him.

We had to ring a tinkling bell for admittance and Felicie, buxom and of high color, welcomed us all. Certainly she would care for the angel; most evidently she would look after the precious lamb; with not the slightest doubt she would love and cherish the little cabbage. While I remained in the penumbra of the half darkened shop, it took the three of them to see the baby properly installed on the bed in the back room.

Frances and Frieda heard the solemn promise made to them, to the effect that there would be no advent.i.tious aid to happiness such as a lump of sugar tied in a rag, and presently we sallied forth.

Lest my readers be already weary of Camus, I can only say that I am one of those individuals who stick to old friends, either through an inborn sense of faithfulness or, more probably, because of a tendency to slothfulness, which makes me consider it exceedingly troublesome to wander afield and search for pastures new. We had our dinner in quiet enjoyment and felt, as we came out again, that the world was a very fair sort of a dwelling-place. We had enjoyed the food and I fancy that, under the table, my foot had beaten time to the melody eked out by the orchestra. The fiddler, I am glad to say, is looking somewhat stouter.

The good meals provided by the widow may be responsible for this. At any rate, I rejoice to think so, since it would go to show that a dinner at Camus is not only a pleasant, but also a hygienic, pursuit.

For an instant our enjoyment of the music was interrupted by the clang and clatter of pa.s.sing fire engines. We looked about us, perfunctorily, and decided that the conflagration was neither under our chairs nor above our rafters and continued to sip our coffee with the contempt due to a New Yorker's familiarity with steam-pumps and water towers. A couple of minutes later we left and, reaching Sixth Avenue, found it somewhat crowded. A block further we came to a panting engine and hurried on. Cars were blocked by a line of hose stretched across the street. Frances caught my arm, nervously, and a look of terror came over her. Then we ran, Frieda puffing behind. The fire was in the middle of the block and streams of water crashed through windows. Ladders were going up and the firemen, conscious that it was but a moderate blaze, from their standpoint, worked calmly and effectively.

"You stay there!" I shouted to my two companions and elbowed my way through the crowd, which was being pushed back by policemen. One of them seized me and threatened to use his locust on my cranium if I advanced any farther. I drew back and dashed through another opening till I reached Felicie's door, entering the place and nearly falling over a large osier basket in which were piled up a lot of tangled garments.

"Take de handle!" commanded the good woman.

"The baby! Little Paul!" I shouted.

"Under the silk dress. Take de handle," she repeated.

We issued from the place, meeting with a policeman who suspected us of unworthy motives. We had to exhibit the infant and establish our ident.i.ty before he would let us proceed with the huge basket. It was about time! Firemen bearing a length of pipe dashed by us and entered the cleaning establishment. The fire, it appeared, was in the restaurant next door and threatened to invade Felicie's premises.