It was to nothing more than a glance, swift and momentary, directed by Andriaovsky to myself while the others had talked, that I traced this desire to see more of the little Polish painter; but a glance derives its import from the circumstance under which it is given.  That rapid turning of his eyes in my direction an hour before had held a hundred questions, implications, criticisms, incredulities, condemnations.  It had been one of those uncovenanted gestures that hold the promise of the treasures of an eternal friendship.  I wondered as I turned down the gas again and remounted the stairs what personal message and reproach in it had lumped me in with the others; and by the time I had reached my own door again a phrase had fitted itself in my mind to that quick, ironical turning of Andriaovsky’s eyes:  "Et tu, Brute!..."

He was standing where I had left him, his small shabby figure in the attitude of a diminutive colossus on my hearthrug.  About him were the recently vacated chairs, solemnly and ridiculously suggestive of still continuing the high and choice conversation that had lately finished.  The same fancy had evidently taken Andriaovsky, for he was turning from chair to chair, his head a little on one side, mischievously and aggravatingly smiling.  As one of them, the deep wicker chair that Jamison had occupied, suddenly gave a little creak of itself, as wicker will when released from a strain, his smile broadened to a grin.  I had been on the point of sitting down in that chair, but I changed my mind and took another.

“That’s right,” said Andriaovsky, in that wonderful English which he had picked up in less than three years, “don’t sit in the wisdom-seat; you might profane it.”

I knew what he meant.  I felt for my pipe and slowly filled it, not replying.  Then, slowly wagging his head from side to side, with his eyes humorously and banteringly on mine, he uttered the very words I had mentally associated with that glance of his.

"Et tu, Brute!" he said, wagging away, so that with each wag the lenses of his spectacles caught the light of the lamp on the table.

I too smiled as I felt for a match.

“It was rather much, wasn’t it?” I said.

But he suddenly stopped his wagging, and held up a not very clean forefinger.  His whole face was altogether too confoundedly intelligent.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he said peremptorily.  “No getting out of it like that the moment they’ve turned their backs!  No running—­what is it?—­no running with the hare and hunting with the hounds! You helped, you know!”

I confess I fidgeted a little.

“But hang it all, what could I do?  They were in my place,” I broke out.

He chuckled, enjoying my discomfiture.  Then his eyes fell on those absurd and solemn chairs again.

“Look at ’em—­the Art Shades in conference!” he chuckled.  “That rush-seated one, it was talking half an hour ago about ’Scherzos in Silver and Grey!’ ...  Nice, fresh green stuff!”