Heliobas passed the greater part of the day in his study—­a small, plainly furnished room, the facsimile of the one I had beheld him in when I had dreamed those three dreams at Cannes.  Whether he received many or few patients there I could not tell; but that some applied to him for advice I knew, as I often met strangers crossing the hall on their way in and out.  He always joined us at dinner, and was invariably cheerful, generally entertaining us with lively converse and sparkling narrative, though now and then the thoughtful tendency of his mind predominated, and gave a serious tone to his remarks.

Zara was uniformly bright and even in her temperament.  She was my very ideal of the Greek Psyche, radiant yet calm, pensive yet mirthful.  She was full of beautiful ideas and poetical fancies, and so thoroughly untouched by the world and its aims, that she seemed to me just to poise on the earth like a delicate butterfly on a flower; and I should have been scarcely surprised had I seen her unfold a pair of shining wings and fly away to some other region.  Yet in spite of this spirituelle nature, she was physically stronger and more robust than any other woman I ever saw.  She was gay and active; she was never tired, never ailing, and she enjoyed life with a keen zest such as is unknown to the tired multitudes who toil on hopelessly and wearily, wondering, as they work, why they were born.  Zara evidently had no doubts or speculations of this kind; she drank in every minute of her existence as if it were a drop of honey-dew prepared specially for her palate.  I never could believe that her age was what she had declared it to be.  She seemed to look younger every day; sometimes her eyes had that limpid, lustrous innocence that is seen in the eyes of a very little child; and, again, they would change and glow with the earnest and lofty thought of one who had lived through years of study, research, and discovery.  For the first few days of my visit she did not work in her studio at all, but appeared to prefer reading or talking with me.  One afternoon, however, when we had returned from a short drive in the Bois de Boulogne, she said half hesitatingly: 

“I think I will go to work again to-morrow morning, if you will not think me unsociable.”

“Why, Zara dearest!” I replied.  “Of course I shall not think you unsociable.  I would not interfere with any of your pursuits for the world.”

She looked at me with a sort of wistful affection, and continued: 

“But you must know I like to work quite alone, and though it may look churlish, still not even you must come into the studio.  I never can do anything before a witness; Casimir himself knows that, and keeps away from me.”

“Well!” I said, “I should be an ungrateful wretch if I could not oblige you in so small a request.  I promise not to disturb you, Zara; and do not think for one moment that I shall be dull.  I have books, a piano, flowers—­what more do I want?  And if I like I can go out; then I have letters to write, and all sorts of things to occupy me.  I shall be quite happy, and I shall not come near you till you call me.”