“Don’t mention it.  I shall occupy myself in hanging the picture in the most artistic way possible.”

So I left him, his mind apparently concentrated on the childish task of pinning the photograph of the ridiculous horse on my bedroom wall, and went with the most complicated feelings downstairs and through the corridors to Lola’s apartments.

She rose to meet me as I entered.

“It’s very kind of you to come,” she said in her fluent but Britannic French.  “May I present my husband, Monsieur Vauvenarde.”

Monsieur Vauvenarde and I exchanged bows.  I noticed at once that he wore the Frenchman’s costume when he pays a visite de ceremonie, frock-coat and gloves, and that a silk hat lay on the table.  I was glad that he paid her this mark of respect.

“I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, Monsieur,” said he, “in circumstances somewhat different.”

“I remember perfectly,” said I.

“And your charming but inexperienced little friend—­is he well?”

“He is at present decorating my room with photographs of Madame’s late horse, Sultan,” said I.

He was startled, and gave me a quick, sharp look.  I did not notice it at the time, but I remembered it later.  Then he broke into an indulgent laugh.

“The poor animal!” He turned to Lola.  “How jealous I used to be of him!  And how quickly the time flies.  But give yourself the trouble of seating yourself, Monsieur.”

He motioned me to a chair and sat down.  He was a man of polished manner and had a pleasant voice.  I guessed that in the days when he paid court to Lola, he had been handsome in his dark Norman way, and possessed considerable fascination.  Evil living and sordid passions had coarsened his features, produced bagginess under the eyes and a shiftiness of glance.  Idleness and an inverted habit of life were responsible for the nascent paunch and the rolls of fat at the back of his neck.  He suggested the revivified corpse of a fine gentleman that had been unnaturally swollen.  I had disliked him at the Cercle Africain; now I detested him heartily.  The idea of Lola entering the vitiated atmosphere of his life was inexpressibly repugnant to me.

Contrary to her habit, Lola sat bolt upright on the stamped-velvet suite, the palms of her hands pressing the seat on either side of her.  She caught the shade of disgust that swept over my face, and gave me a quick glance that pleaded for toleration.  Her eyes, though bright, were sunken, like those of a woman who has not slept.

“Monsieur,” said Vauvenarde, “my wife informs me that to your disinterested friendship is due this most charming reconciliation.”

“Reconciliation?” I echoed.  “It was quickly effected.”

“Mon Dieu,” he said.  “I have always longed for the comforts of a home.  My wife has grown tired of a migratory existence.  She comes to find me.  I hasten to meet her.  There is nothing to keep us apart.  The reconciliation was a matter of a few seconds.  I wish to express my gratitude to you, and, therefore, I ask you to accept my most cordial thanks.”