The Englishman drew a long breath.

“I take it,” said he, “that means that you’re—­that she has accepted you, eh?” He held out his hand.  He was a brave and honest man.  Even in pain he was incapable of jealousy.  He said:  “I ought to want to murder you, but I don’t.  I congratulate you.  You’re an undeserving beggar, but so were the rest of us.  It was an open field, and you’ve won quite honestly.  My best wishes!”

Then at last Ste. Marie understood, and in a flash the glory went out of his face.  He cried:  “Ah, mon cher ami!  Pig that I am to forget.  Pig!  Pig!  Animal!”

The other man saw that tears had sprung to his eyes, and was horribly embarrassed to the very bottom of his good British soul.

“Yes!  Yes!” he said, gruffly.  “Quite so, quite so!  No consequence!” He dragged his hands away from Ste. Marie’s grasp, stuck them in his pockets, and turned to the window beside which he had been sitting.  It looked out over the sweet green peace of the Luxembourg Gardens, with their winding paths and their clumps of trees and shrubbery, their flaming flower-beds, their groups of weather-stained sculpture.  A youth in laborer’s corduroys and an unclean beret strolled along under the high palings; one arm was about the ample waist of a woman somewhat the youth’s senior, but, as ever, love was blind.  The youth carolled in a high, clear voice, “Vous etes si jolie,” a song of abundant sentiment, and the woman put up one hand and patted his cheek.  So they strolled on and turned up into the rue Vavin.

Ste. Marie, across the room, looked at his friend’s square back, and knew that in his silent way the man was suffering.  A great sadness, the recoil from his trembling heights of bliss, came upon him and enveloped him.  Was it true that one man’s joy must inevitably be another’s pain?  He tried to imagine himself in Hartley’s place, Hartley in his, and he gave a little shiver.  He knew that if that bouleversement were actually to take place he would be as glad for his friend’s sake as poor Hartley was now for his, but he knew also that the smile of congratulation would be a grimace of almost intolerable pain, and so he knew what Hartley’s black hour must be like.

“You must forgive me,” he said.  “I had forgotten.  I don’t know why.  Well, yes, happiness is a very selfish state of mind, I suppose.  One thinks of nothing but one’s self—­and one other.  I—­during this past month I’ve been in the clouds.  You must forgive me.”

The Englishman turned back into the room.  Ste. Marie saw that his face was as completely devoid of expression as it usually was, that his hands, when he chose and lighted a cigarette, were quite steady, and he marvelled.  That would have been impossible for him under such circumstances.

“She has accepted you, I take it?” said Hartley again.