Friendship, or even the mere forms of friendship, are the touchstone of a man.  O’Neill was credited in his world with the friendship of Regnault.  It had even been to him a matter of some social profit; there were many who deferred willingly to the great man’s intimate.  O’Neill saw no reason to set them right, but he knew himself that he had come by a loss in his close acquaintance with the Master.  To know him at a distance, to be sure of just enough to interpret his work by the clue of his personality, was a thing to be glad of.  But if one went further, incurred a part of his confidence, and ascertained his real flavor, then, as O’Neill once said, it was like visiting one’s kitchen; it killed one’s appetite.

While he pondered, he was none the less watchful; he saw the change on the still face as soon as it showed.  With a quick exclamation he crossed to the bed.  Regnault’s jaw had set; his eyes were wide and rigid.  On the instant his forehead shone with sweat.  Deftly and swiftly O’Neill laid his hands on a capsule, crushed it in his palm, and held it to the sick man’s face.  The volatile drug performed its due miracle.

The face that had been a livid shell slackened again; the fixed glare sank down; and Regnault shuddered and sighed.  Buscarlet, trembling but officious, wiped his brow and babbled commiserations.

“Ah!” said Regnault, putting up a thin hand to stop him.  “It takes one by the throat, this affair.”

Though he spoke quietly, his voice had yet the conscious fullness, the deliberate inflection, of a man accustomed to speak to an audience.

“Yes,” said O’Neill.  “Were you sleeping?”

The sick man smiled.  “A peu pres,” he answered.

“I was remembering certain matters—­dreaming, in effect.”

He shifted his head on his pillow, and his eyes traveled to and fro about the great room.

“If this goes on,” he said, “I shall have to ask a favor of somebody.”  His quick look, with its suggestion of mockery, rested on O’Neill.  “And that would be dreadful,” he concluded.

“If it’s anything I can do, I’ll do it, of course,” said O’Neill awkwardly.

He aided Buscarlet to set the bed to rights and change the pillow-cover, conscious that Regnault was watching him all the time with a smile.

“One should have a nun here,” remarked Buscarlet.  “They come for so much a day, and do everything.”

“Yes,” said Regnault;—­“everything.  Who could stand that!”

He shifted in his bed cautiously, for he knew that any movement might provoke another spasm.

“Now, tell me, O’Neill,” he said, in the tone of commonplace conversation.  “That doctor—­the one that walked like a duck—­he was impressive, eh?”

O’Neill sat down on the foot of the bed.

“He’s the best man in Paris,” he answered.  “He did his best to be impressive.  He thought we weren’t taking your illness seriously enough.”