"
"You suffer yourself to be led away," he replied soothingly. "It
is not unpleasant here; only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a
scene. Shall we try Alceste and Celimene? No? Or a passage from
the 'Two Orphans'? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will
play up to you as I never have played before; I feel art moving in
my bones."
"Hold your tongue," she cried, "or you will drive me mad! Will
nothing solemnise you - not even this hideous situation?"
"Oh, hideous!" objected Leon. "Hideous is not the word. Why,
where would you be? 'Dites, la jeune belle, ou voulez-vous
aller?'" he carolled. "Well, now," he went on, opening the guitar-
case, "there's another idea for you - sing. Sing 'Dites, la jeune
belle!' It will compose your spirits, Elvira, I am sure."
And without waiting an answer he began to strum the symphony. The
first chords awoke a young man who was lying asleep upon a
neighbouring bench.
"Hullo!" cried the young man, "who are you?"
"Under which king, Bezonian?" declaimed the artist. "Speak or
die!"
Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to much the same
purpose from a French tragedy.
The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful,
gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey
tweed suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he
now came forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm.
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