Chapter XXVII

           

           Twoorthreeweekspassed.Onemorning,havingcometoapauseinmywork,IthoughtIwouldgivemyselfaholiday,andIwenttotheLouvre.IwanderedaboutlookingatthepicturesIknewsowell,andletmyfancyplayidlywiththeemotionstheysuggested.Isaunteredintothelonggallery,andtheresuddenlysawStroeve.Ismiled,forhisappearance,sorotundandyetsostartled,couldneverfailtoexciteasmile,andthenasIcamenearerInoticedthatheseemedsingularlydisconsolate.Helookedwoebegoneandyetridiculous,likeamanwhohasfallenintothewaterwithallhisclotheson,and,beingrescuedfromdeath,frightenedstill,feelsthatheonlylooksafool.Turninground,hestaredatme,butIperceivedthathedidnotseeme.Hisroundblueeyeslookedharassedbehindhisglasses.

           "Stroeve,"Isaid.

           Hegavealittlestart,andthensmiled,buthissmilewasrueful.

           "Whyareyouidlinginthisdisgracefulfashion?"Iaskedgaily.

           "It’salongtimesinceIwasattheLouvre.IthoughtI’dcomeandseeiftheyhadanythingnew."

           "Butyoutoldmeyouhadtogetapicturefinishedthisweek."

           "Strickland’spaintinginmystudio."

           "Well?"

           "Isuggesteditmyself.He’snotstrongenoughtogobacktohisownplaceyet.Ithoughtwecouldbothpaintthere.LotsoffellowsintheQuartershareastudio.Ithoughtitwouldbefun.I’vealwaysthoughtitwouldbejollytohavesomeonetotalktowhenonewastiredofwork."

           Hesaidallthisslowly,detachingstatementfromstatementwithalittleawkwardsilence,andhekepthiskind,foolisheyesfixedonmine.Theywerefulloftears

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