PERFECT.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XV, 13 October 1900, Page 668

PERFECT.

By

ANITA VTVANTI CHARTRES.

“ Amor che a cor gentil ratto s’apprende.”—Daxte.

IV. She told her husband all about it. as she sat with her little one in her arms, close by him, in the bright, closed dining-room. He growled in his fat, comfortable way, and told her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, and that she was not fit to go running about the globe alone. Next year they would go together, or she should stay at’home. Really, he was sorry for the poor fellow. But Francesca laughed and laughed, with her face in her baby's soft hair —perfectly happy, utterly at peace. Next morning she brushed her hair back tightly off her ears, made a thick plait of it, and pinned it up in a business-like, unbecoming way at the back of her head. She went through the house with Mary, finding fault aud setting new rules and regulations. She discharged the housemaid. She praised the nurse. She went into the kitchen and kissed the cook, the rude, loud-voiced Irish cook, whose face was unpleasant with grease and emotion. She forgot all about Ribs, who was howling to himself in the yard. Then she put on a large apron and went into her studio. Her old paintings looked at her with new faces, but over the clean canvas standing on the easel wavered visions of Guido’s Christs and Sanzio’s Angels; and Tintoretto's Dead Daughter faded away into Beatrice Cenci’s weeping eyes and smiling mouth. Oh, the glorious possibilities of that untouched canvas! Her Italian soul trembled with superstitious awe. She said seven Ave Marias to bring herself luck; then took up her brushes. She worked for six days, pasionately, feverishly. On the seventh morning Mary knocked at the studio door and brought in a letter. Francesca dried her turpentined fingers in her apron and opened the envelope. It bore an Italian stamp. " I am coming to New York,” wrote Karl Helmuth. " I shall run up to Frankfurt to say good-bye to my people, and sail from Liverpool next Saturday week, on the Etruria. I am coming because I want to see you. It is useless for me to pretend to have any other reason. All I want is to be where you are; all I ask for is the sight of your face; all I hope for is your friendship. Ido not want to be more to you than Ribs; but why should I be less ? Why should I be three thousand miles away from you, while he is allowed to bark out his grief to your windows and flap his tail against the stones of your yard? Let us, Ribs and I, live out our lives under the light of your calm eyes. ' Ne altro chiederemo.’ ”

So he was coming to New York to see her! Not for any other reason, but just to see her; only to see her, and perhaps be allowed to speak to her sometimes. Three thousand miles! And he was leaving Italy, and Lamperti, and Leoni, and Domenicetti, and his career, and his mother and sister, in order to live out his life, like Ribs, under the light of her calm eves.

She took off her apron and looked at herself in the looking glass. She ruffled up her hair a little over her temples, it was dragged back so tight. Then she ran downstairs and out into the vard.

There stood Ribs' desolate, yellow kennel, and his two paws hung forlornly out of it, She called him: "Ribs! ” And he lifted a slow and rather inflamed eye to her face. “Come here. Ribs. Poor Ribs! Good dog.” He crawled out, stretching himself, with his tongue hanging flabbily out of. his mouth. He was an ugly dog. He was a dog no one would ever dream of saying “ sir ” to. “Go away, dog," was the only way strangers addressed him. He looked sick, degenerate and mangy. But Francesca suddenly put out her white arms and dragged him to her. She took his rusty cheeks between her hands, and spoke to him. “I have been very unkind to you, Ribs. I

have not come down to see you since 1 arrived. 1 have made fun of you and called you names. Aud you are so good and sad arid faithful. And 1 cannot help oeing glad you are coming three thousand miles to see me. 1 am going to send you down all the lamb chops we were to have for lunch; we can do with the cold veal and salad. Dear dog! good dog! ” Then she put her fair cheek on his shabby brown head and began to cry. She showed the letter to her husband because she had to, not because she wished to. He took it in the wrong spirit. She knew he would. He called the young fellow an "insolent ass” and a “presuming idiot,” and damned his cheek, and said he would teach him a lesson.

“Why,” said Francesca, “I thought you pitied him so the other day when I was laughing at him.” At which her husband lifted up his eyes in astounded silence, walked out of the room and slammed the door.

Francesca had Ribs brought up into the drawing-room out of sheer defiance. In some vague way she connected Karl Helmuth with the dog and spoke to the animal in German, discussing his imprudence and combating his love, in tender, rambling sentences which Ribs went to sleep over unresponsively, because he was old and tired.

Mary brought him into the room, dragging him by the collar, his legs stiff and straight, in bony protest against this suspicions innovation. Francesca patted him and gave him sugar, which he crumbled all over the light carpet and licked up at great length with his sticky tongue. Then he was sent away, as unwilling to go as he had been to come, leaving wiry brown hair all over the furniture and earthy paw marks down the stairs. He trotted heavily into his kennel and went to sleep again. Francesca sat wondering, with hands clasped before her. How should she receive him? Surely she must welcome him when he landed in a wild, strange country where she was his only friend. But if Jack would not let her? Jack was such an obstinate, narrow-minded man. He did not understand the beauty of Karl’s pure, god-like love; the deep, serene worship that could no more offend her than a sinner’s Ave could insult the Virgin Mary. In some things Jack was horribly “borne.” He was all very well in Wall-street, but the higher emotions he did not comprehend. The blue things of the soul, the pale things of the spirit, were beyond his limited, commonplace understanding. One could see it. He was fat, horribly fat. And his eyes were kind and brown and nice, but there was no depth in them, no brimming, filling waves of azure, tremulous with light. His eyes were brown, every-day. Wall-street eyes. How could they ever hope to see the blue things of the soul? She would go alone to meet Karl and welcome him and scold him, and tell him he must go back by Wednesday's boat. With or without permission she would go. Then some of his words came back to her: “I love you because your husband adores you, and because you love your child, and because your homelife is happy and complete.” That was the ideal he carried in his mind and heart: that perfectly harmonious chord, as he once said, of three beautiful notes —the man’s deep, strong, tender bass: the seraphic, tremulous treble of the child; and the calm, still, middle note that made harmony of these two —herself. That was how he dreamed of her; that was how he should find her. They must all three go to meet him at the boat. “Ce que femme vent.” Jack was reasoned to, and quarrelled with, and wept over, and sulked at. He was made to understand how beautiful the situation was —his young wife going to meet the man who loved her, with the strong husband and the tender child at her side. He was made to

admit the silent, sublime lesson thus taught without a word, impressing the unhappy young- man at once with the hopelessness of his own lot and the simple beauty of the family "tableau.”

"And the burden and the lesson,” quoted good old Jack vaguely. “Yes, yes. All right. I do not mind, my dear. It is the most grotesque situation in the world for all of us. But we’ll make fools of ourselves to please you. M e would do a great deal more.”

So she kissed him and told him he was a darling, and he was not to wear his large felt hat on Saturday because he looked like Buffalo Bill.

"You must wear your brown derby, Jack, and a tweed suit.” “But, my dear child, we are in August, and lam stout. Have pity on me. Surely I can wear a straw hat if you object to the Buffalo Bill.” But Francesca would not hear of it. And on Friday evening the tweed suit and a high stand-up collar and derby hat were laid out in Mr Verdon's dressing-room for him to wear next morning.

Nina’s soft, straight brown hair was put up on leather curling pins, which made little lumps all over her head and prevented her from sleeping. She was very cross, tossing and crying, and saying her hair hurt and the lumps ached, and she wanted to get up and dress in the middle of the night. The nursery was next door to her mother’s room, and Francesca was up and down half a dozen times, trying to pacify her and begging her not'to take the'curlers out of her hair.

When they all got up at half-past seven next morning (the boat was expected at ten) Nina was horribly peevish and naughty, and Francesca, pale and puffy about the eyes, quarelled with Jack for eating such a big breakfast. It made her feel sick to see him, she said. And would he please put his boots on and get ready. It was nearly nine o’clock.

They got into the carriage. Nina, in a heavenly blue dress and in tears, was slapped and scolded all the way down because she did not want to sit with her back to the horses. Jack was perspiring in his stiff collar and derby hat. and Francesca was trying to be the “calm, still middle note that made harmony of these two.”

They hurried on to the dock at twenty minutes to ten in a flutter of excitement. At one o’clock they went wearily across the way and ate some fearful sandwiches at the “Seamen’s Best—Hotel—Rooms for Gentlemen Only.” They hurried back again. At three the boat was sighted moving up slowly past the Statue of Liberty. Karl stood on deck with the breeze blowing through his hair, as tall and handsome as a young Dionysius. He took his field glasses from the case slung over his shoulder and looked at the heavy, “engonce” figure of Liberty, at its thick, square draperies, and at the astounding Brooklyn Bridge. Then he focussed the pier—Pier 40—a small, round, wooden float, with little creatures crawling about on it. Was she there? Surely she had come to welcome him, to say, “Buon giorno,” with outstretched hand and smiling, upturned face. Or perhaps she had sent a carriage with a message telling him to drive straight up to her house, where she would be waiting in her cool sitting-room with the shades down and the servants bringing in afternoon tea.

Of her husband he thought little or nothing. He had never seen him, and hardly realised that he existed. It would be time enough to think of him when they met. So in his mind Francesca still stood alone and free, as he had known her, with her brown hair through the sentimental emptiness of his soul.

There she was! In white, with a white parasol, all alone, to the front of the pier. How slender and pretty! There she stood waiting for him. His heart beat up in a wave of tender-

uess around that white, frail figure, he saw no one else. Tne boat crept on. He knew exactly how she would look when their eyes met—the quick, young smile, with not much heart in it, but so much of gladness. The slight instinctive clasping of the small gloved hands, the ringing Italian voice: "Salve, signore” in the pretty classic salutation that she so often used.

The boat crawled forward. The girl in white closed her parasol and moved her hat back from her forehead. Why that was not Francesca; not even like her. How could he have made such a mistake? But where was Francesca? His eyes roved hungrily over the dock. The people stood so close together he could not distinguish them. Perhaps that one, with something scarlet in her hat—

The boat came right in. and among the waving handkerchiefs and hats he suddenly saw her. She was standing near a large stout man who was drying his face with his handkerchief, and she was holding a little girl by the hand; a family group like two or three others near them. He saw her bend down to the little one and point out the ship, point him out as he stood far aft. all by himself. So he took off his cap and waved it to them. She turned to the stout man and said something that made him leave off drying his face and wave the large handkerchief at Karl. Then Karl went down to fetch his bag and umbrella. He stood near the head of the plank waiting for his turn to land. He looked at Francesca, whose upturned face was quite pale and serious as she held the little girl’s hand. Her husband was laughing at three Frenchmen who were embracing and kissing each other.

It was his turn. He walked down the steep, rickety plank with his unmbrella. in one hand and his bag in the other. There at the foot they stood, all three, to receive him. But the child had begun to cry. loudly and fretfully. Francesca bent over her and tried to quiet her as Karl stepped off. “You naughty child, don’t crv. Say how do you do to Mr Helmuth. Give him your hand prettily, like a good girl.” But Nina was tired and cross, and went on crying. So the first one to greet him was Mr Verdon, who held out a large warm hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.” Francesca lifted a vexed face from her daughter’s tearful and blotchy countenance. “She’s sleepy, poor little thing,” she said apologetically. Then she shook hands with Karl, and asked him if he had a good crossing. “Yes. thank you.” said Karl.

They were pushed and elbowed about by the people crowding round the gangway.

“I am sorry Nina gives you such a poor welcome.” said Francesca, looking down at the little wailing figure by her side. “We have been waiting so long, and she has missed her afternoon sleep.” “Yes.” said Karl, and for the life of him could think of nothing else to say. The silence was stupid. Francesca felt pale and sick. “Come.” she said, “let us go straight to the carriage and drive you to your hotel. We thought the Metropole would be nice for you, and it is not far from our house. Or had you made up your mind to go somewhere else?” “He must wait for the Custom House people to examine his baggage.” said Mr Verdon. And to Karl: “You had better go over there, under ‘H.’ ” So they all went across and stood under the letter H. “I want to go home,” sobbed Nina: “take me home.”

So Karl said they should please not wait for him. as he was sure to be all right. There were some people he had made friends with on board, who would see him through if he wanted anything.

These people—two ladies and a young boy—came up, still pleasantly excited by having seen their American friends, and talked to Karl in a cheeryintimate way which made Francesca feel unreasonably offended. Nina, with her hair all out of curl and her hat crushed, was sobbing, a picture of loud misery, at her skirts. “You had better take her home,” said her husband. “I’ll stay here and see that he is all right.” So Francesca held out a limp hand to Karl, who left his new friends to say good-bye to her. She turned her tired back on him and walked away down the long dock, with the weeping child beside her. At the open end

she stood waiting for a carriage to drive up. When Karl, who had been watching her. turned to see after his luggage, he caught a glimpse of what looked very much like a smile on Mr Venion’s fat and comfortable features. And suddenly he felt as if some one had walked with loud feet into the sacred chapel of his heart and blown all the caudles out. V. They invited him to dinner next day, and he went, stiff and goodlooking. in his Frankfurter evening dress. The dinner, well-served in the tiny dining-room, was excellent, and he ate a great deal; the voyage had given him a huge appetite. They talked America most of the time; its climate, its resources, its political and financial situation. Air Verdon did most of the talking. They laughed at Karl, who did not know what a cocktail was. and when he asked whyin this country laundries were called “Hing Lees," the hilarity was prolonged and friendly.

Frencesca, in a black dinner-dress, with her pretty shoulders bared, sat sedate and charming at the head of the table. Karl wondered why she was not livelier, and thought she must be getting on towards thirty. While he was thinking this and looking at her, she lifted her eyes suddenly and met his.

A wild-rose glow rushed over hetface and neck. Then her lashes dropped again. Her thoughts, so latelv grown shy, flew back to Rimini, to the lonely boat with the little puddle of muddy water at the bottom of it “Quanti dolci pensier. quanto disio!” and to the dear little shady sittingroom at the Hotel Lungarno, in Florence. Surely he was thinking of it too; she could tell by his face, it was so grave and gentle. With a little gasp, as she looked at his cool beauty, she remembered him, holding both her hands. “Your mouth.” he had said Sobbingly; “your mouthl Oh. my God!, ” Oh. mjv God! How had she refused him? How could she have laughed? Mr A erdon was keeping up an animated soliloquy on the silver question and the national finances, 'putting large mouthfuls of partridge and toast into his good-natured mouth. If he saw more than he looked at. it evidently did not disturb him: and he treated his guest and his dinner with broad and genial benevolence. Francesca did not eat anything. She watched the two men who sat eating and talking before her. with a sick impatience, she knew not of what.

At dessert Nina was brought In. curled and beribboned. She shook hands shyly and prettily with Karl, and went into peals of .laughter because her father tickled her neck: then she scampered over to her mother and crawled up into her lap. There she sat. comfortably, with her little brown head resting against Francesca’s breast.

Karl looked at them. Thus he had pictured her in the self-torturing agony of his dreams. Thus he saw ber at last. And lo! the torture and the agony and the love all went out of his heart, tranquilly, together. Again she raised her eyes—her eyes of Murillo’s gypsy-Afadonna — and looked at him over her little girl’s brown head.

Suddenly his thoughts flew backward too —the sun had gone down: he stood watching a low, sleeping tree, with golden blossoms folded, and tranquil leaves outspread. Behold! In her eyes the wonder of the lampadette was repeated. A quiver ran through their depths: the light, gold-brown stars trembled and shook: like the petals of strange flowers their calmness started into tears, and the tremulous marvel of her soul opened before him. Then Karl knew that the “little lamps” of sorrow were lit in her eyes, and the sun of his love had gone down.

He called on her the following afternoon. She had asked him to as he was saying good-bye the evening before. Her husband had heard, and had added encouragingly, “Yes, do call. The afternoons are rather long for Afrs A’erdon. as I am down-town all day. and most of our friends are still in the country. I e;tn guarantee.” he said, putting a proprietary arm around her shoulders, and smiling down on her with tranquil contentment, “that she will make you the most delicious cup of Russian tea that samovar has ever yielded. “You know,” he added, “my wife is not only a great artist and a

charming woman, she is also au excellent housekeeper.” tin that pleasant note Karl had left the house. Did Air Verdon, with his every-day Wall-street eyes, understand, after all, the blue things of the soul? Francesca was a little timid ;md awkward at first. All her laughing serenity, her tender cruelty, had vanished. and she was earnest, womanly, and shy„ She looked at Karl —the Karl that had come three thousand miles to see her—with anxious, tremulous eyes. She felt that something w-as going wrong, and had no idea of what it was.

Karl was very nice and friendly, but he no more looked like a man who had come three thousand miles to live out his lonely life in the light of her calm eyes, than Troubetzkoy’s picture of Lord Dufferin looked like Caraeci’s Laocoon.

She made the Russian tea for him. moving about in graceful matronliness before his cooling gaze. Where was the wild. free, unconventional Italian “Francesca da Rimini ” that he had loved and dreamed of? Where was her insolent cruelty, her untamed grace? Was it for this good wife and excellent housekeeper that he had tossed through the anguish of white nights, with wide, aching arms and crying soul? An unreasonable anger came over him as he watched her. He remembered the expense of the journey: Leoni’s lessons that he had paid for and not taken; the scenes of tears and quarrels with his mother and sisters when he told them he was going to leave: the tiresome sea vovage. with not a good looking girl on board: the distance away he was from everybody; the small, hot room in the Aletropole for which he was paying two dollars and a had a day—all these grievances came up in his heart against her as she bent her quiet head and poured out his tea. She handed it to him with a shy smile that irritated him. Then she took her own cup and sat down on the causeiise. "You have a friend.” she said, lifting mild, almost wistful eyes to his glowing young face, “who knows all about you. and whom you have never asked to see.” "A friend?” exclaimed Karl briskly. "Who is it?” With a light laugh Francesca went on: “We have spoken together by the hour about you. I have done most of the talking and he the sympathetic listening.” “He! A man. therefore?" said Karl, looking puzzled. “Who is it? Do tell me.” "He is a close neighbour of ours.” said Francesca. “Finish your tea and we will go and see him.” “Ready,” cried Karl, putting down his cup. And then, as Francesca rose to go with him. “Do you go like that?” he said, looking at her pale tea-gown and bare head. Francesca nodded and smiled, and they went downstairs together “What are your plans for the future?” she asked, leading the way to the basement. ‘■l have none.” said Karl, trying to dodge her trailing gown; "none whatever.” They passed through the back door into the yard. “Come.” said Francesca, with a pretty beckoning gesture, stopping before the dog’s kennel. Karl, who was thinking of his plans and his future, now suddenly became so blank and so complicated, came up and stood beside her. absentmindedly. Franlesca bent down and held out a calling hand to the animal. “Come out." she said; “come here! good dog!” Ribs, redder of eye and mangier of fur. emerged in brown hideousness, and moved a slow tail in ungainly joy. “Aly God! What an awful brute.” exclaimed Karl. "You ought to have him shot.” Francesca’s heart leaped into her throat. “That is Ribs,” she said. “What a fearful cur.? and Karl looked down at the beast in laughing disgust. Ribs, maudlin with age and affliction, went up to him affectionately. “Get out.” said Karl, pushing him away with his stick. “But where is the man we were going to see?” he added, turning to Francesca. “What man?” “Why. that friend of mint you were speaking of,” said Karl.

Francesca laughed a little awkward laugh. “Oh! that was—that was not true," she said. "1 was only joking.” Karl wrote to a friend of his in Frankfurt to cable to him thut his mother was in. It was the easiest way of getting out of a ridiculous situation. Meanwhile he called on the Verdons quite often, because he had nowhere else to go Besides, though the happy-family, "bon menage" air of Francesca’s home irritated him. he could not help liking to go there: to watch her face paling away into faintness when he looked at her, and glowing into sudden roses when he took her hand. He watched this belated. useless love growing up in her heart with the amused interest of an outsider. It pleased ami flattered him. And really, it was the least that he could expect in compensation for all the trouble and expense he had been put to. Such heartaches and such an amount of money thrown away! He could have knocked himself down for being such an idiot.

He ought never to have come. Any one else would have known better. But there! it was the German dreamer’s blood flowing too romantically through his veins. He ought to have been a poet; he was always doing things that poets did. This journey had eost him over four hundred dollars. without counting the expenses at Rimini. And now the return journey! He made up his mind that he would go back second-class; and that determination soothed him. “Ach ja!” Only a poet, an Arcadist, a Chevalier Geoffroy, would be capable of mediaeval romanticism such as his! And Karl Helmuth walked up and down his twx>-and-*t-half-dollar room in the Metropole, reciting aloud what he remembered of Heine. Lenau and Petrarca, melting in complacent melancholy as he applied their rending measures to himself. "Mit schwarzen Segeln segelt mein Schift Wohl über das Wilde Meer" les; he would certainly go back-second-class. It would save him thirty dollars. "Mit schwarzen Seg-eln mein Schiff Wohl über das wilde Meer!" VI. The cablegram arrived. Karl decided to take it round to Francesca at once. She would be alone—it was early afternoon, and Air A’erdon was downtown —and he would enter her room with sad. set face and hand her the paper in tragic silence. All this he said to himself as he slipped on his light overcoat and put on his hat. Then he went out, whistling. Unfortunately Francesca was not in the room when he entered with his sad. set face. So he walked over to the looking-glass and adjusted his tie. He was contemplating himself, with his head on one side, and giving a downward droop to his moustache with slightly wetted forefinger and thumb, when he saw that she had come in and stood behind him. He had no time to look sad or set; he turned and handed her the cable without a word. "Poverino!” she said, in her soft Italian voice; "poverino!" “Of course." said Karl mournfully. "I must go back.” Something, some vague repressed ring of satisfaction and relief, must have reached her keen soul through his Jdow spoken words. She lifted her clever face, pale to the lips, with the light of revelation in her wide eyes. "Of course." she said calmly. He looked at her. Under his steady blue eyes that she had seen so often fill with tears, her own wavered, overflowed. Her dolorous mouth trembled. Her soul sobbed out her wondering misery. He stood looking down at her and feeling very sorry. She used to be so pretty and wild and happy. He wished — “a parte" the question of the four hundred dollars—that he bad never come. So lie took her hand tenderly and kissed it. She began to cry. piteously, brokenheartedlv. She could not understand. “Why—— ? Why——?" she sobbed, looking up at him with trembling mouth. He knew what she meant. But he could not answer, or explain the strange, simple transformation that had come over his heart. He would have wounded her without making her understand. So he bent down and kissed her hair. As she began to sob again, he took his hat and left her.

VII. Mr Verdon insisted that they should all three go to see him off ami “speed the parting guest" as they had welcomed him. So the three drove down again one morning; Nina, as good as gold, with her back to the horses; Francesca, with pale face ami swollen eyes, and Mr Verdon talking pleasantly of their plans for the coining winter, with his eyes persistently turned out of the window on his side. His fat. kind hand lay on his knee near to Francesca. Once her eves wandered down to it in a helpless kind of way, but she turned from it quickly and drew her own further away. Mr Verdon went on talking about the advisability of giving fortnightly receptions during the winter. Hi's voice was strong and steady, but his thick eyebrows were drawn into a queer, troubled curve over his commonplace. Wall-street eyes—the eyes that could not see the pale things of the spirit. The huge ship panted and shrieked. All ashore, please; all ashore!’* cried the red faced sailors, hustling and jiushing past. “Good-bye,” said Mr Verdon, holding out his hand to Karl, who shook it warmly. “And good luck to you. Hope you'll have a pleasant journey and find the dear old lady O. K. when you get home.” Then he lifted Nina up in his arms: the people were pushing her about so. "Say good-bye to Mr Helmuth, young one.” he said, holding her forward. "Kiss him nicely and say ‘God speed.’ ” “God speed,” said little Nina, in her bird-like treble voice, and kissed Karl's handsome face. 'A ou follow me. Francesca.” said her husband, lifting the little one on his shoulder, and he turned from them and made his way largely and broadly through the crowd. Francesca put out her hand to Kart. "My God!" she said, lifting her miserable face to his, “shall I never see von again?” “Why not?” said Karl lightly, “the world is so small!” "Come along, dear.” Jack said authoritatively. drawing his wife's arm through his and taking hold of Nina with the other hand. “We are not going to stand here with the crowd, looking up like fools until the boat leaves. Just wave your hand to him and come along.” Francesca meekly turned and obeyed. There he stood, tall, fair and alone, far aft on the bridge, with his cap in his hand and the sun shining down on his wavy hair. He smiled and nodded and waved his cap. Then, suddenly, she understood. She saw herself, as he saw her, moving away with her fat. contented husband and her healthy little child—a tender wife, a patient mother, a good housekeeper. He had thought he loved her tor all this: he had said he loved her because she was a perfect woman. It was not true. Men do not love perfect tvomen. The boat shrieked and quivered. As they got into the carriage she could hear the people on the dock cheering and the last hoarse, answering cry from the ship. Men do not love perfect women. She turned her head slightly toward her husband, who was looking out of the window as before, with averted face—except, perhaps, it be men who do not understand the blue things of the soul.

His fat, strong hand was lying on his knee. It looked a lonely hand. Suddenly Francesca lifted it to her lips and kissed it. Nina laughed.