He smiled gaily, and then his face became meditative and sad.

“My artistic career has never been far away from tragedy,” he said at length. “It was founded on a tragedy, and not long ago I thought it would end in one.”

I waited in silence, knowing that if he wished to tell me any private history, he would begin of his own accord.

“You are listening, Carl?”

I nodded. It was growing dusk.

“You remember I pointed out to you the other day the little house in the Rue d’Ostende where my parents lived?”

“Perfectly.”

“That,” he proceeded, using that curiously formal and elaborate English which he must have learned from reading-books,