“There was nothing said about passion,” I answered

“Then why the deuce did you buy it?” he said with some pertinence.

This staggered me.

“A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose,” I replied.

Nick held the picture at arm’s length in the palm of his hand and regarded it critically.

“Faith,” said he, “you may thank heaven it is only a picture.  If such a one ever got hold of you, Davy, she would general you even as you general me.  Egad,” he added with a laugh, “there would be no more walking the streets at night in search of adventure for you.  Consider carefully the masterful features of that lady and thank God you haven’t got her.”

I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.

“There will be no rivalry between us, at least,” I said.

“Rivalry!” exclaimed Nick.  “Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such abject slavery.  When I marry, it will be to command.”

“All the more honor in such a conquest,” I suggested.

“Davy,” said he, “I have long been looking for some such flaw in your insuperable wisdom.  But I vow I can keep my eyes open no longer.  Benjy!”

A smothered response came from the other side of the wall, and Benjy duly appeared in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight, to put his master to bed.

We slept that night with no bed covering save the mosquito bar, as was the custom in New Orleans.  Indeed, the heat was most oppressive, but we had become to some extent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in such sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed.  Early in the morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song from the court-yard, and I lay pleasantly for some minutes listening to the early sounds, breathing in the aroma of coffee which mingled with the odor of the flowers of the court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding a cup in her hand.  I arose, and taking the miniature from the table, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and then, having dressed myself, I put it carefully in my pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a letter to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had seen in New Orleans would amuse her.  This done, I went out into the gallery, where Madame was already seated at her knitting, in the shade of the great tree that stood in the corner of the court and spread its branches over the eaves.  She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.

“Madame,” I asked, “is it too early to present myself to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?”

“Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South for we have our siesta.  You are going to return the portrait, Monsieur?”

I nodded.

“God bless you for the deed,” said she.  “Tenez, Monsieur,” she added, stepping closer to me, “you will tell his father that you bought it from Monsieur Auguste?”

I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.