Adolph was practising some new Futurist music of Ravel's. Its dissonances fatigued and irritated him, but he was lured by its horrible fascination, and grated away with an enraged persistence. Paris was hot, the attic hotter, for it was July. Adolph wondered as he played how long it would be before he could get away to the sea. He was out of love with the city, and thought longingly of a possible trip to Sweden. His reflections were interrupted by Stefan, who pushed the door open listlessly, and instantly implored him to stop making a din.

“What awful stuff—it's like the Cubist horrors,” said he, petulantly.

“Yes, my friend, yet I play the one, and you go to see the other,” said Adolph, laying down his fiddle and mopping his head and hands.

“Not I,” contradicted Stefan, wandering over to his easel. On it was an unfinished sketch of Felicity dancing—several other impressions of her stood about the room.

“Rotten work,” he said, surveying them moodily. “All I have to show for over three months here. Adolph,” he flung himself into a chair, and rumpled his hair angrily, “I'm sick of my way of life. My marriage was a mistake, but it was better than this. I did better work with Mary than I do with Felicity, and I didn't hate myself.”

“Well, my infant,” said Adolph, with a relieved sigh, “I'm glad to hear you say it. You've told me nothing, but I am sure your marriage was a better thing than you think. As for this little lady—” he shrugged his shoulders—“I make nothing of this affair.”

Stefan's frown was moodier still.

“Felicity is the most alluring woman I have ever known, and I believe she is fond of me. But she is affected, capricious, and a perfect mass of egotism.”

“For egotism you are not the man to blame her,” smiled his friend.

“I know that,” shrugged Stefan. “I've always believed in egotism, but I confess Felicity is a little extreme.”

“Where is she?”

“Oh, she's gone to Biarritz for a week with a party of Americans. I wouldn't go. I loathe mobs of dressed-up spendthrifts. We had planned to go to Brittany, but she said she needed a change of companionship—that her soul must change the color of its raiment, or some such piffle.” He laughed shortly. “Here I am hanging about in the heat, most of my money gone, and not able to do a stroke of work. It's hell, Adolph.”

“My boy,” said his friend, “why don't you go home?”

“I haven't the face, and that's a fact. Besides, hang it, I still want Felicity. Oh, what a mess!” he growled, sinking lower into his chair. Suddenly Adolph jumped up.

“I had forgotten; there is a letter for you,” and he tossed one into his lap. “It's from America.”

Stefan flushed, and Adolph watched him as he opened the letter. The flush increased—he gave an exclamation, and, jumping up, began walking feverishly about the room.

“My God, Adolph, she's heard about Felicity!” Adolph exclaimed in his turn. “She asks me about it—what am I to do?”

“What does she say; can you tell me?” enquired the Swede, distressed.

“Tiens, I'll read it to you,” and Stefan opened the letter and hastily translated it aloud. “She's so generous, poor dear,” he groaned as he finished. Adolph's face had assumed a deeply shocked expression. He was red to the roots of his blonde hair.

“Is your wife then enceinte, Stefan!”

“Yes, of course she is—she cares for nothing but having children.”

“But, Stefan!” Adolph's hands waved helplessly—he stammered. “It cannot be—it is impossible, impossible that you desert a beautiful and good wife who expects your child. I cannot believe it.”

“I haven't deserted her,” Stefan retorted angrily. “I only came away for a holiday, and the rest just happened. I should have been home by now if I hadn't met Felicity. Oh, you don't understand,” he groaned, watching his friend's grieved, embarrassed face. “I'm fond of Mary—devoted to her—but you don't know what the monotony of marriage does to a man of my sort.”

“No, I don't understand,” echoed his friend. “But now, Stefan,” and he brought his fist down on the table, “now you will go home, will you not, and try to make her happy?”

“I don't think she will forgive this,” muttered Stefan.

“This!” Adolph almost shouted. “This you will explain away, deny, so that it troubles her no more!”

“Oh, rot, Adolph, I can't lie to Mary,” and Stefan began to pace the room once more.

“For her sake, it seems to me you must,” his friend urged.

“Stop talking, Adolph; I want to think!” Stefan exclaimed. He walked in silence for a minute.

“No,” he said at last, “if my marriage is to go on, it must be on a basis of truth. I can't go back to Mary and act and live a lie. If she will have me back, she must know I've made some sacrifice to come, I'll go, if she says so, because I care for her, but I can't go as a faithful, loving husband—it would be too grotesque.”

“Consider her health, my friend,” implored Adolph, still with his bewildered, shocked air; “it might kill her!”

“Can't! She's as strong as a horse—she can face the truth like a man.”

“Then think of the other woman; you must protect her.”

“Pshaw! she doesn't need protection! You don't know Felicity; she'd be just as likely as not to tell Mary herself.”

“I always thought you so honorable, so generous,” Adolph murmured, dejectedly.

“Oh, cut it, Adolph. I'm being as honorable and generous as I know how. I'll write to Mary now, and offer to come back if she says the word, and never see Felicity again. I can't do more.”

He flung himself down at the desk, and snatched a pen.

He signed his name in a dashing scrawl, blotted and folded the letter without rereading it, addressed and stamped it, and sprang hatless down the stairs to post it.

An enormous weight seemed lifted from him. He had shifted his dilemma to the shoulders of his wife, and had no conception that in so doing he was guilty of an act of moral cowardice. Returning to the studio, he pulled out a clean canvas and began a vigorous drawing of two fauns chasing each other round a tree. Presently, as he drew, he began to hum.