Good-bye."

Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic.

"I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as
he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at
the ceiling reflectively.

"H'm!" he said at last. "What the devil does this mean? Not Andree,
surely not Andree! Yet I wasn't called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was
Bagshot's insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!"

He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put
them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half
quizzically.

"It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am
constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for
your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we'll meet
again some time, and then we'll be good friends, no doubt."

He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated
newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the
sketches again and again.

"There's a resemblance," he said. "But no, it's not possible. Andree-
Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I'd go to-morrow and
see, if I weren't off to Fontainebleau. But there's no hurry: when I
come back will do."