“Do not apologize, monsieur.  Enter, if you will!” She drew back, smiling a little, and making him welcome by a simple gesture.  “We are anxious, I assure you, to find a tenant for the appartement; my husband’s health is not what it was, and we find it necessary to move into the country.”

He followed her into a tiny hall; and with her fingers on the handle of an inner door, she looked at him again in her gentle, self-possessed way.

“You will excuse my husband, monsieur!  He is an invalid and cannot rise from his chair.”

She opened the inner door, and Max found himself in a bedroom, plain in furniture and without adornment, but possessing a large window, the full light from which was falling with pathetic vividness on the shrunken figure and wan, expressionless face of a very old man who sat huddled in a shabby leathern arm-chair.  This arm-chair had been drawn to the window to catch the wintry sun, and pathos unspeakable lay in the contrasts of the picture—­the eternal youth in the cold, dancing beams—­the waste, the frailty of human things in the inert figure, the dim eyes, the folded, twitching hands.

The old man looked up as the little party entered, and his eyes sought his wife’s with a mute, appealing glance; then, with a slight confusion, he turned to Max, and his shaking hand went up instinctively to the old black skullcap that covered his head.

“He wishes to greet you, monsieur, but he has not the strength.”  The woman’s voice dropped to tenderness, and she stooped and arranged the rug about the shrunken knees.  “If you will come this way, I will show you the salon.”

She moved quietly forward, opening a second door.

“You see, monsieur, it is all very convenient.  In summer you can throw the windows open and pass from one room to the other by way of the balcony.”

She moved from the bedroom into the salon as she spoke, Max and the lady of the pins following.

“See, monsieur!  It is quite a good room.”

Max, still subdued by the vision of age, went forward silently, but as he entered this second room irrepressible surprise possessed him.  Here was an atmosphere he had not anticipated.  A soft, if faded, carpet covered the floor; a fine old buffet stood against the wall; antique carved chairs were drawn up to a massive table that had obviously known more spacious surroundings; while upon the walls, from floor to ceiling, were pictures—­pictures of all sizes, pictures obviously from the same hand, on the heavy gold frames of which the name ‘L.  Salas’ stood out conspicuously in proof of former publicity.

“Madame!” He turned to the sad-faced woman, the enthusiasm of a fellow-craftsman instantly kindled.  “Madame!  You are an artist?  This is your work?”

The woman caught the sympathy, caught the fire of interest, and a faint flush warmed her cheek.

“Alas, no, monsieur!  I am not artistic.  It is my husband who is the creator of these.”  She waved her hand proudly toward the walls.  “My husband is an artist.”