the guests were settled in soft easy-chairs in the cool drawing-room.

There was no other light than the fire in the grate. Its red glimmer
crept over the English carpet and up the gold borders in the tapestry;
it shone upon a gilt picture-frame, on the piano that stood opposite,
and, here and there, on a face further away in the gloom. Nothing else
was visible except the red ends of cigars and cigarettes.

The conversation died away. The silence was broken only by an occasional
whisper or the sound of a coffee-cup being put aside; each seemed
disposed to enjoy, undisturbed, his genial mood and the quiet gladness
of digestion. Even Monsieur Anatole forgot his truffles, as he reclined
in a low chair close to the sofa, on which Mademoiselle Adèle had taken
her seat.

'Is there no one who will give us a little music?' asked Senhor de
Silvis from his chair. 'You are always so kind, Mademoiselle Adèle.'

'Oh no, no!' cried Mademoiselle; 'I am too tired.'

But the foreigner--the Irishman--rose from his corner and walked towards
the instrument.

'Ah, you will play for us! A thousand thanks, Monsieur--.' Senhor de
Silvis had forgotten the name--a thing that often happened to him with
his guests.

'He is a musician,' said Mademoiselle Adèle to her friend. Anatole
grunted admiringly.