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It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had
just dropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with
"Caro Emilio," and it never occurred to him that possibly he might be
interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could not
realize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw him
sometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was
sure anybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him
play a valse on the piano, or a bit of the "Boheme," than bend over a
table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him.
But it was not only that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type,
and a singularly perfect one.
Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair opposite
to the sofa.
"Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of
the sea!"
The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also shone in his
round and boyish eyes.
"I have just come out of the sea.


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