to

vernon w.{284} s. ply

jason and artemis had been married only two years when they learned, be{285}yond a shadow of a doubt, that the sickness from which jason had for some time been suffering was consumption. they were both young and very brave; nevertheless, they bowed their heads in resignation. jason was doomed. three brothers and sister had already died of the disease; consumption had killed his mother and his paternal grandfather. decay had been poured into his blood-vessels by both father and mother, and there was no course open to him but to submit to fate.

for ten hours a day they stitched carpets at the big factory near the cathedral, earning enough money to keep them in tolerable comfort in their two-roomed lodging in rue egnatia. but the time soon came when jason was unfit for work, and the twenty-five drachma note that artemis carried home each week had to provide for the needs of both. artemis made a great show of eating big meals, but she denied herself even the necessaries of life in order that jason might have the costly foods that nourished him.

if she had loved him in health, she now worshipped him in sickness, for jason was not only husband—he was like a son as well. and, indeed, he soon became as helpless as a little child. her grief was bearable because she was so constantly employed that she had no time in which to brood upon it; the circumstances that poisoned her mind was that she could not tend him in the daytime, for she was compelled by her work to leave him in the care of their landlady.

very soon their savings came to an end. medicines and rich foods exhausted her weekly wage two{286} days after she received it, and it became imperative to earn a much larger sum.

“dear artemis,” said jason one evening, as he lay in bed watching her mending a stocking, “it’s wonderful how far you make the money go. but i think i can guess how you manage it. you don’t eat enough yourself. you are pale and thin, and your beautiful hair is losing its lustre.”

with her needle poised in the air, she turned to him with a smile.

“i don’t eat enough? why, i sometimes think i eat too much. i know i’m pale and perhaps a little thin, but just think of the weather we’re having! it’s the hottest august we’ve had for years and years. besides, i never was one to have much colour.”

she continued looking at him, for she loved his handsome dark face, now grown weirdly beautiful with the ravages of disease.

“i wish the end would come more quickly,” he said. “sometimes i think it is wrong for me to take medicines and eat costly food. no one can save me—what’s the use of it? why prolong my wretched life?”

“because, living, you make me happy. in all the world i have only you, jason. do not leave me an hour before you must.... but we must not talk like this; we must not grow sad when the evening comes. i’ll light the lamp; it will be a companion for us. and then, if you like, i will sing you a new song i learned to-day from one of the girls at the factory.”

but though she spoke so cheerfully, her heart was as heavy as lead. she had come to t{287}he end of her money, and jason’s food for the morrow had yet to be bought.

as she crossed the room to light the lamp, the half-conscious thought that had lain buried in her mind for weeks stirred uneasily and leapt up, alive and clamant. instantly she acquiesced in its demands. if that was the only way out, that way must be taken.

the little lamp on the wall burned well.

“which do you think is more companionable—a clock that ticks and makes a noise, or a lamp that burns and makes a light?” she asked.

“oh—a lamp. i love light, and silence doesn’t trouble me a bit. but i would like to hear you sing. sing softly—just for you and me to hear.”

it was a neapolitan song she had learned, a barcarolle that swayed easily with the movement of a swung hammock or of a little boat on gentle, regular waves. it told of a love that was constant, of a love that would hold through all the sorrows of life, that would survive old age, and cleave its way through the darkness of death.

and if, when i am dead, my heart

turns into dust, to dust my face,

i’ll ride upon the swiftest wind

and find your burial place.

“again,” he said, when she had finished.

so sh{288}e sang it through a second time, her sweet, low voice vibrating with passion.

“love must last—it will,” he said; “it is the only thing that can never die.”

he turned over on his side and closed his eyes.

“do you feel ready for your sleep?” she asked, for jason nearly always slept uninterruptedly from nine till midnight.

“yes: i think i do.”

so she went over to him, smoothed his pillow, drew the sheet above his shoulders, and kissed him.

“good-night, husband,” she said, and kissed him again. “good-night, little boy,” she added, kissing him a third time.

she resumed her work; but after a time, when she was sure he was safely asleep, she rose, put on her hat, turned out the lamp, and crept softly to the door.

out in the street, she began her mission, doing with a brave heart but with shrinking flesh what tens of thousands of women have done for the husbands they have loved.

turning down rue venizelos, she reached the quay and entered a café where loose women plied their wares. she did not dare to sit down, for she had no money with which to purchase a drink; so she walked slowly through the café as though seeking some one.

now, artemis was not beautiful, but she possessed something more powerful, more subtly attractive than beauty. she had innocence—innocence dwelt on her face, and the spirit of innocence surrounded her like a halo. she was afraid of what she was about to do, but she did not hesitate. she remembered that it h{289}ad been said that there was no greater love than the love which constrains a man to lay down his life for his friend. but honour was dearer than life.

she loitered in the noisy café for a minute, and as she was about to turn and leave, a man’s insistent gaze caught her eyes and held them. she smiled. he beckoned her. walking towards him, she sat down at the table by his side.

“you are new to this game, aren’t you?” he said frankly, but not unkindly. “what can i order you?”

a waiter brought her coffee. her companion examined her closely, admiring her dainty hands, her clear eyes, her wealth of golden hair.

“do you know me?” he asked.

“no: i don’t think i’ve ever seen you before.”

“well, you must call me onias. and i would like to call you by a pretty french name i know—lucette. do you like your name, lucette?”

“yes, i think i do. but do you think it suits me?”

“yes. it is dainty and so are you. and it is pretty and innocent, and i think you are pretty and innocent also.”

“but, onias!” she objected. “that doesn’t suit you at all. onias ought to be fat and shapeless, with marks of grease on his waistcoat.”

he laughed, pleased that she could talk as well as look pretty.{290}

“but,” he said, “onias is my real name. still, i’m glad i don’t live up to it.”

“you’re nicer than onias,” she said, and as she spoke, she suddenly felt afraid of her glibness. she had forced herself to forget her husband for these hours, but without warning their little bedroom was before her eyes. she shivered.

“are you cold?” he asked.

“no, no. quite, quite warm, thanks.”

“this place is very noisy,” he said, “shall we go?”

he preceded her, and at the counter bought her a box of chocolates.

“don’t do that!” she said piteously. “don’t buy me anything!”

“but, lucette—”

“i don’t want you to be kind to me,” she murmured; “i only wish....”

but he took the box that was handed to him across the counter, and carried it under his arm.

the quay was thronged, and onias offered artemis his arm. after a little hesitation, she took it. though she herself was tall, he was very much taller. he had the bright distinction of a man accustomed to issue orders that were instantly obeyed.

“you will come to my house?” he whispered, a little shyly. “i am a bachelor and live alone with two servants. but perhaps you would like some supper first?”

“no—no thanks. i am not a bit hungry. and—i am so sorry—i can only stay with you a little while.”{291}

“why?” he asked; “stay all night with me—do!” he urged.

“i am so very sorry,” she replied, “but it’s impossible. i must be home by midnight.”

“very well,” said he, patting the little hand that rested on his arm, “it shall be as you wish. but i’m terribly disappointed. perhaps some other night?”

“no—indeed,” she said, “i must always be home at midnight, and later on it may be that i shall not be able to come out at all in the evenings.... do not be angry with me!”

“i am not angry: i am only sorry. do not distress yourself, my dear. you are very good and honest not to try to deceive me. here we are: this is my house.”

he opened a massive iron gate that gave on to a garden of trees. a broad pathway led to a detached house some distance from the road. he could feel that she was trembling a little.

“do not be afraid,” he said, “i shall treat you kindly.”

he took her hand in his and pressed it gently.

“i am not afraid of you,” she said; “i am just a bit afraid of what i am doing.”

he unlocked the front door, and they entered a large hall. an elderly woman came in response to his ring.

“serve supper for two in an hour’s time,” he ordered. then, turning to artemis, he asked: “do you like wine, lucette?”

“oh, no, no. do not order me any supper,{292} i beg. i shall not be able to eat to-night.”

puzzled and a little disturbed, he said:

“very well, dear. it shall be as you wish.”

he dismissed his servant and turned to artemis.

“do not be afraid. no harm shall come to you.”

an hour later they were again in the hall.

“you can find your way home? you will be quite safe?” he asked.

“oh yes: i shall be quite safe.”

“you will come to see me again?”

“oh, no, no!... but perhaps i must. but i cannot think of that now. good-night, onias.”

“you are satisfied? you have enough money for what you need?”

“you have given me more than i expected,” she said innocently.

“and you do like me a bit?”

“how can i say i like you? indeed, i ought to hate you, but that would be unreasonable. but, onias.... let me go.”

“you are free to come and go as you please. if you wish to see me again in the evening of any day, come to the café. if i am not there, i shall be here and shall be very, very happy to receive you.”

he opened the door and offered her the box of chocolates. gently shaking her head, she refused his pres{293}ent.

“au revoir, lucette,” he called softly when she was half-way down the pathway.

but though he listened very carefully, he did not hear her voice. indeed, by this time he was no longer in her thoughts. the three twenty-five drachma notes he had given her were crushed into a ball in one of her cold and trembling hands.

when artemis reached her lodgings, her husband was still asleep; but he had evidently been very restless, for she could see by the light shed by the lamp in the street that the sheet that had covered him was flung to one side. he was lying on his back, with his arms stretched out on either side of him.

cold and trembling, she stood looking down upon him in the half-darkness. soon her face was wet with tears, though she made no sound; with a gesture of annoyance, she stopped weeping and conquered her mood of self-pity.

having undressed, she crept into her little bed at the other side of the room, and lay still, waiting for jason to waken. the clocks outside struck midnight. but jason slept on in silence, and soon artemis began to wander in that land which lies midway between sleeping and waking.

it was nearly two o’clock when her husband’s voice wakened her.

“yes, dear, i am here,” she said, slipping out of bed.{294}

she lit the lamp, went into their other room, poured a glassful of milk into a pan, and brought it to their bedroom where she heated it over the lamp.

“it’s nearly two o’clock,” she said; “you haven’t had such a good sleep for a long time. are you feeling better?”

“yes, i think i am.”

she held the cup while he drank its contents. then she smoothed his pillow and, taking a thin blanket from a cupboard, spread it over him.

without a word he closed his eyes and in a few minutes he slept.

but there was no more sleep for artemis. though she had not a single regret, yet she felt unspeakably miserable. her reason approved of what she had done, but her spirit revolted against it. she lived over and over again the hours she had spent between nine and midnight, torturing herself by remembering every detail.

soon after dawn she rose, dressed, put on her hat, and went forth to buy food for jason.

what must be, must be, and it is only the hypocritical sentimentalist who feels remorse for an act which he intends to commit again when the occasion arises. artemis neither suffered from remorse nor indulged in it. nor did she rail against the fate that compelled her to sell her body in order that jason might live. in certain moods she gloried in the desecration of her body as a martyr glories in the flames that consume him.{295}

at the end of a fortnight, the seventy-five drachmas she had earned from onias was all but spent. her spirits were very low. she felt weak and ill, and as she stared at her reflection in the mirror she realized for the first time that less money would come to her if she allowed herself to look jaded and ill-nourished.

early one sunday evening she left her lodgings, telling her husband that she was going to visit her mother who lived two miles away on the kalamaria road.

when she entered the café it was nearly empty, for the evening was yet young; so she sat down, ordered coffee, and waited, examining the half-dozen demireps who had already arrived. they talked at each other in hard, loud voices. three, sitting together, sparkled with the vulgar arrogance of diamonds; they behaved as though they had just been injected with cocaine. after a glance at artemis as she entered, they paid no further attention to her.

customers began to drop in in couples, and by half-past eight the place was nearly full. artemis, shrinking in a corner, glanced eagerly at each fresh face. she was looking for onias. perhaps she might have attracted the attention of some other man if she had tried, but onias had wished to see her again, and he had at least treated her kindly. besides, this evening she was full of lassitude, and too timid to seek a new customer. she would wait a little longer; if he did not come, she would go to his house.{296}

but presently he arrived with a woman—a frail creature who looked and moved like a sulphur-coloured butterfly. neither saw artemis as they passed, and her heart sank. he had forgotten her. he had asked her to come again, not because he wanted her, but because he pitied her. she must nerve herself to the point of engaging the interest of a stranger. so she called for a glass of wine.

in the meantime, onias had passed up the café with his companion; finding no vacant chairs at the far end, they retraced their steps and sat down at a table only a few yards from artemis.

a waiter brought her wine and, as she glanced up at him, she saw that onias’ eyes were upon her. she heard his voice.

“ah, there’s lucette!” he exclaimed.

and, leaving his companion, who appeared to be quite indifferent to his movements, he came across to artemis, sat by her side, and smiled gaily upon her.

“where have you been all this time, my dear?” he asked. without waiting for an answer, he continued: “but you are looking pale and tired, lucette. you have not been taking care of yourself; why have you not been to see me?”

she did her best to meet him in his mood.

“i have seen no one,” she answered, “and the reason why i came here to-night was because i hoped to meet you.”

“that is very kind of you. do you know{297} maisie, the english girl?”

he indicated the sulphur-coloured butterfly.

“no, i don’t know any one.”

“ah, well! it does not matter. you will come with me to-night?”

her grave, innocent face showed a moment’s confusion.

“thank you, yes. but i must be home early.”

he laughed deprecatingly.

“but lucette, you mustn’t thank me. i am only too glad to have you. some time, perhaps, you will stay all night with me?”

“oh, no: i don’t think i shall ever be able to do that. you promised you would not be angry with me?”

“i don’t like you to say things like that, lucette; of course i am not angry with you, and i never shall be while you are so honest and truthful. but you, in your turn, must not be angry with me if i make you eat something. i’m going to have some supper: i can’t eat alone: you must join me.”

“very well,” she said, “i will.”

she almost liked him, so indulgently did he treat her.

“excuse me a minute, please, while i explain to maisie.”

he went over to the beautiful girl, bent over her, and spoke a few words. in reply, she shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

“ought you not to ask your friend to sup with you as well?” asked artemis when he had returned.{298}

he smiled.

“oh, maisie and i are old friends; we understand each other.”

he ordered wine and food.

“but,” he said, turning to artemis, “perhaps you would like us to have supper in a private room?”

“i should—very much,” she half-whispered, “for i feel strange here among all these people.”

“and so would i,” he agreed.

“the summer-house, monsieur, is not being used, if you would like that,” said the waiter.

onias questioned artemis with his eyebrows, and she nodded in reply.

the large summer-house was cool and cushioned; concealed from the rest of the garden by a high hedge, they were alone and unobserved. onias took his lucette in his arms and kissed her gently.

“i feel so sad about you,” he said; “won’t you tell me what is the matter?”

“please don’t ask me about myself,” she said softly; “you must just think of me as—as someone who pleases you for an hour.”

“but perhaps i can help you?”

“you have helped me. you must let me keep my sorrows to myself.”

with their supper the waiter brought a little lamp with a shade the colour of the evening sky. it was now almost dark in this garden. two large white moths dashed themselves impetuously against the lamp, their eyes shining with excitement. excited, too, was the owl that called and called somewhere in the grove of pepper-trees{299} behind them....

as artemis was about to leave onias’ house that night, he placed five twenty-five-drachma notes in her hand.

“it is too much,” she said involuntarily.

“oh no: i like to give it to you.”

“if it were for myself, i should not take it all; but it is for some one who is dying.”

“poor lucette! some one you love?”

“yes. he has nothing but what i give him.”

“i did not know that,” he said gravely. “has life always been hard to you?”

“oh no! it has been beautiful—beautiful. if only jason were well, it would be beautiful still. you know, monsieur, he is like a little child.”

“hush! hush! you must not call me monsieur. to you i am onias; to me you are lucette.... a little child?”

“yes. so helpless, so dependent upon me. and he does not want to die.”

sadly she turned away and walked towards the door.

“you will see me again?” he asked.

“yes—i will see you again.”

he pondered a minute.

“now,” he said; “may i ask?—is jason your husband?”

“yes, oh yes.”

“you love him?”

“he is all i have{300}—all i need.”

“well, then, you must come here no more. i will send you money.... but while you love your husband, you must not do this. you have been driven to my arms: it is wrong. yes, i will send you money. or, if you would like it better, i will leave it each saturday at the café. i will write on the envelope ‘for lucette.’ i will tell the waiter who served us to-night. if you ask him each time you call, he will give you the money.”

“but, onias, i can’t take it. i shall not have earned it.”

he turned on her angrily.

“don’t talk nonsense! i have plenty of money. i don’t want it. if it pleases me to give it to you, i shall give it to you.... come, lucette, be sensible. we shall meet again, some day, and then we can kiss each other without—without this guilt.”

she took his hand impulsively in hers and kissed it.

“good-bye, onias,” she said softly.

“and you will call at the café each saturday?”

“i will.”

“you promise?”

“i promise.”

during these last september days jason rallied. his appetite improved, he grew stronger, and every day he was well enough to get out of bed, dress, and sit in an easy-chair for two or three hours. he ceased to lose flesh, and his eyes no longer had their unnatural brightness.{301}

the old greek doctor studied him attentively from day to day, and one saturday morning when artemis was away at her work, he took jason by the hand and said:

“you are not going to die, my son. you become healthier every day. a miracle has happened.”

“a miracle?” asked jason.

the doctor smiled.

“well, when we medical people come across something we don’t understand, we call it a miracle. but you must continue to take the greatest care of yourself, especially when the cold weather comes. if you could go to egypt for the winter....”

jason laughed.

“flying to the moon is not more unlikely than my going to egypt....”

when artemis returned from her work early in the afternoon, tired, but not unhappy—for the improvement in her husband’s health had filled her with hope—jason was up and dressed.

“a miracle has happened!” he announced, laughing. and then, hurriedly and impetuously, he told her of the doctor’s visit.

“oh, is it true?” she asked. “it is too wonderful! i daren’t believe it, jason.”

placing the parcels she was carrying on a chair, she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him.

“oh, my boy, my boy!” she cried.

worn out with the week’s work in the daytime and the nursing by night, she could not keep back her tears; her sobs, deep and convul{302}sive, revealed to him the extent of the suffering she had so bravely endured through the past few months....

at teatime he returned to bed, and she prepared to go out.

“sleep, if you can, jason dear,” she said. “i am going to do the shopping for the weekend.”

she hurried off to the café with a light heart. the envelope with her weekly seventy-five drachmas was waiting for her. as she was leaving, she met onias at the entrance.

“hello, lucette!” he said, smiling and shaking hands; “how are you?”

“oh, onias—jason is getting better! the doctor came this morning and said he wouldn’t die. if great care is taken of him, he will live. i am so happy that i can hardly contain myself—and if it had not been for your money....”

her eyes were now bright with tears.

“are you in a hurry to get home?” he asked.

“no, not if you want me.”

“i should like to take you for an hour’s row. you look so tired and pale, and it will do you good. will you come?”

“oh yes: i should like it.”

artemis’ experience of the world was very narrow. until recently she had always believed that men and women were either definitely good or unmistakably evil. onias, she supposed, was “bad,” and yet it was hard to believe that this gentle, kind-hearted fellow was even tainted by evil. she was quite sure now that she really liked him—not because of his handsome looks{303} and his fine, strong body, but because....

it was very pleasant to be with him here on the cool sea....

at nine o’clock she returned home, her arms full of parcels.

jason, a little feverish, was tossing on his bed. he was frowning, and he looked angry.

“you have left me alone for a long time,” he said; “where have you been?”

startled, and having no answer ready, she said:

“i went to see mother. have you been wanting me, dear?”

“no. had your mother any news?”

artemis suddenly felt sick: she had told one lie, and now she would be compelled to tell many more.

“nothing much. but i felt i had to tell her about you. she was simply overwhelmed with joy, as you can well imagine, and she sent all sorts of nice messages to you.”

jason sat up in bed, his face wet with perspiration. his eyes were brilliant with the brilliant hardness of polished glass. he looked at artemis imploringly.

“i don’t know what has happened to me—to us,” he said. “why do you tell me such lies?” the sound of that last word seemed to whip him to anger. “and where have you been getting all your money from?”

she shrank away from him and went to the table near the window.{304}

“i’ve told you where the money comes from. my brother in london sends it. he has sent it regularly ever since i told him you were ill.”

but she knew that the very tone of her voice betrayed her.

“you only tell lies to me because i am helpless; you wouldn’t dare to do it if i were well and strong. you have not seen your mother to-day. she came here just after you left, and went home only half an hour ago.”

he lay down on his pillow, exhausted and breathing heavily.

with feverish anxiety artemis searched her mind for another lie that would reconcile her own statement with the real facts. but she could find none.

“i have deceived you, jason,” she said.

“i know, i know,” he said sorrowfully.

he did not ask her why, but turned his face to the wall. after a few moments’ silence, he said:

“you will find a letter on the mantelpiece: it is from your brother in london. when you told me that he was sending you money, i wrote to thank him. but he now asks what i mean. he says he has never sent you a penny, and cannot do so as his wife is seriously ill.”

artemis sat down heavily.

“don’t say anything unless you can tell me the truth,” went on jason; “i will try to believe you had a good reason for what you have done.”

artemis, feeling that her small world had suddenly fallen into a black abyss, sat still and silent for a long time; then, with an effort, she stirre{305}d herself and went about her work.

she dared not speak, for perhaps a single word would betray her. her secret would lie between her and her husband for ever, separating them wider as the years passed, until, perhaps, they became strangers, even enemies.

ten days later jason died in bed whilst artemis was away at her work. in a prolonged fit of coughing he broke a blood-vessel, and passed away with his mind full of dark suspicions regarding his wife.

artemis, worn out with anxiety, her mind poisoned, her spirit broken, felt no shock at his death. she was already numb with suffering: she could feel no more.

she buried him without tears, and a few days later left her lodgings and took a single room in one of those ill-famed streets that lead down to the quay. to her mother’s invitation to make a home with her she replied that for the present she preferred to be alone with her grief.

throwing herself into her work with a feverish anxiety to forget, she passed a few days, successfully keeping at bay the suspicion—now almost a certainty—that she was even now only in the midst of her calamities. even if she could forget, her sorrows were not yet over.

one restless night, when sleep was impossible, her spirit threw off its numbness, and for the first time for many weeks she looked facts in the face, and, speaking aloud, said:{306}

“i am with child, and the father of the child is onias.”

at the end of november the varda winds came. artemis never ventured out of doors except to go to and from her work and to buy the simple necessaries of life. since her husband’s death she had not visited the café. she had, however, written to onias, thanking him for his generosity, and telling him of the death of jason. at the same time she asked him not to send her any more money, as she no longer needed it.

during these months her mind had been full of evasions and duplicities. to think was to suffer; to look into the future was to be filled with anxiety. if, as so often happened, thoughts of jason came to her, she thrust them from her.

day by day onias meant more to her. each sunday, as she sat sewing little garments for his and her baby, she tried to recall every word he had spoken to her. there were hours when she thought of him with tenderness, almost with love. he was the father of her child. jason had never been that.

she began to make discreet inquiries about onias, but without much result. as she sat in her little room during the winter evenings, she dreamed impossible dreams. she pictured herself married to onias, protected and loved by him. there was no more anxiety about money, no more fear of the future. her child would....

in the middle of one of these dreams, she was{307} thrown back into the realities of life by the flame of her lamp burning low and expiring. she had neither oil nor money. she must sit in darkness.

but why should she endure small privations day after day when onias was ready and anxious to receive her? after all, he wanted her and, in her heart of hearts, she wanted him. she must conquer her timidity. if she told onias what had happened to her through him.... well, why shouldn’t she? she would claim nothing from him; she would ask for nothing. she would go to see him as an old acquaintance, an old friend.

she sat in the dark screwing her courage to the sticking-point. she longed yet dreaded to go. at last—

“i will go to the café—he may be there,” she said. “i will meet him as though by accident.”

having hurriedly donned her hat and cloak, she went out into the bitter, stormy night....

the warmth of the café welcomed her. the place was crowded, and for a few moments she could not distinguish one person from another in the smoke-laden atmosphere.

when half-way down the long room she felt a gentle pressure on her arm and, turning, saw onias.

“well, lucette!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand.

she smiled up at him, her face radiant with joy. his very voice seemed to caress her. he took her hand and held it for a few moments.

“are you alone?” he asked.{308}

“yes,” she answered; “may i sit with you?”

“will you? come along—i’ll find you a chair.”

he had been sitting with a group of men and women friends, but he left them and, taking artemis’ arm, led her to the farthest end of the café where, in a little alcove, he found a vacant table with two chairs.

“now tell me all the news. what has happened to you since your husband died?—good things or bad?”

“nothing—nothing,” she said. “i felt very lonely to-night, so i came here.”

“poor little lucette! and are you happy?”

“yes—now, i am happy with you.”

“and to-night?” he asked in a low voice. “you will come to my house to-night? you will stay till to-morrow?”

“i should like to, but, onias....”

“yes, lucette? don’t be afraid. what is it you want to tell me?”

“you will not mind?”

his face suddenly changed its expression.

“no, i shall not mind,” he said.

a waiter came to their table for orders.

“you will have wine, won’t you, lucette?”

“please. some mavrodaphne, i think.”

when the waiter had gone, lucette still remained silent.

“now,” said onias, “tell me.”

“i am going to have a baby,” she said haltingly.

“oh! a baby? you are going to ha{309}ve a baby?”

all the pleasantness had gone from his face.

“yes,” she answered; “and the baby is....” she hesitated in confusion. then: “yes, i am going to have a little baby,” she added.

there was a long silence during which onias drew away from her.

“are you glad?” he asked at length.

her hands were clasped very tightly, and she pulled savagely at the wedding-ring she was wearing.

“i don’t know,” she answered.

the waiter returned to their table with their drinks. onias gulped his down hastily.

“i am going to marseilles to-morrow,” he said casually.

“oh!” exclaimed artemis, in sudden pain. “marseilles is a long way off, isn’t it?”

“yes, a very long way. i shall be there for a year.”

his voice was cold, his manner distant. he took a cigar from his pocket and began to smoke it.

“won’t you drink your wine?” he asked.

she sipped it for a moment, and then put the glass down.

“i don’t want it,” she said. “i—i think i’d like to go home.”

“shall i order you a cab?”

“oh, no, no! i will walk.”

they rose simultaneously.

“please stay where you are,” {310}she said; “i would much rather go by myself. good-night.”

“good-night,” he said, striving to hide the relief he felt.