illness had broken him very much; he was seventy, but looked more. He
had a servant, a Luganese, named Dominique, devoted to him. Nicholas
Treffry had found him overworked in an hotel, and had engaged him with
the caution: "Look--here, Dominique! I swear!" To which Dominique,
dark of feature, saturnine and ironical, had only replied: "Tres biens,
M'sieur!"




III

Harz and his host sat in leather chairs; Herr Paul's square back was
wedged into a cushion, his round legs crossed. Both were smoking, and
they eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when first
thrown together. The young artist found his host extremely new and
disconcerting; in his presence he felt both shy and awkward. Herr Paul,
on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently:

'Good-looking young fellow--comes of the people, I expect, not at all
the manner of the world; wonder what he talks about.'

Presently noticing that Harz was looking at a photograph, he said: "Ah!
yes! that was a woman! They are not to be found in these days. She could
dance, the little Coralie! Did you ever see such arms? Confess that she
is beautiful, hein?"

"She has individuality," said Harz. "A fine type!"

Herr Paul blew out a cloud of smoke.