“See what are still usable of your old things,” said I, “and I will send Antoinette up to you.”

She looked around her, somewhat puzzled.

“Why should I sleep in your room when this one is ready for me—­ my night dress—­even the hot water?”

“My dear,” said I, “that hot water was put for you a year ago.  It must be cold now.”

“And my red slippers—­and my dressing-gown!” she cried, quaveringly.

Then sinking in a heap on the floor beside the dusty bed, she burst into a passion of tears.

I stole away and sent Antoinette to minister to her.

A year before I had raved and ranted, deeming life intolerable and cursing the high gods; I suffered then, it is true; but I hope I may never again go through the suffering of that first night of Carlotta’s return.  Even now I can close my eyes and feel the icy grip on my heart.

She came down to dinner about an hour later, dressed in a pink wrapper, one of the last things she had bought, which Antoinette (as she explained to excuse her delay) had been airing before the fire.  She sat opposite me, in her old place, penitent, subdued, yet not shy or ill at ease.  Stenson waited on us, grave and imperturbable as if we had put back the clock of time a twelvemonth.  The only covert reference he made to the event was to murmur discreetly in my ear: 

“I have brought up a bottle of the Pommery, Sir Marcus, in the hope you would drink some.”

I was touched, for the good fellow had no other way of showing his solicitude.

Carlotta allowed him to fill her glass.  She sipped the wine, and declared that it did her good.  She was no longer a teetotaller, she explained.  Once she drank too much, and the next day had a headache.

“Why should one have a headache?”

“Nemesis,” said I.

“What is Nemesis?”

I found myself answering her question in the old half-jesting way.  And in her old way she replied: 

“I do not understand.”

How vividly familiar it was, and yet how agonisingly strange!

“Where is Polyphemus?” she asked.

“Dead,” said I.

“Oh-h!  How did poor Polyphemus die?”

“He was smitten by Destiny at the end of the last act of a farcical tragedy.”

The ghost of a “hou!” came from Carlotta.  She composed herself immediately.

“I often used to think of Polyphemus and Seer Marcous and Antoinette,” she said, musingly.  “And then I wished I was back.  I have been very wicked.”

She put her elbows on the table, and framing her face with her hands looked at me, and shook her head.

“Oh, you are good!  Oh, you are good!”

“Go on with your dinner, my child,” said I, “and wonder at the genius of Antoinette who has managed to cook it and look after you at the same time.”