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That last visit to the Rue Monsieur le Prince was never mentioned between them. They were as cordial when they met as ever, but Braith did not visit his young friend any more, and Gethryn never spoke to him of Yvonne. "Good-bye, old chap!" Braith would say when they parted, gripping Rex's hand and smiling at him. But Rex did not see Braith's face as he walked away. Braith felt helpless.
Clifford's laugh rang faintly, Braith's grave voice; odd bits and ends of song floated out from the shadows of that past and through the troubled dream of face and laugh and music, so long, so long passed away, he heard the gentle voice of Yvonne: "Rex, Rex, be true to me; I will come back!" "I loved her!" he muttered.
A man passed in the crowd, stopped, stared, and then hastily advanced toward Gethryn. "You?" said Rex, smiling and shaking hands. "Mr Clifford, this is Mr Bulfinch; Mr Braith," but Mr Bulfinch was already bowing to Braith and offering his hand, though with a curious diminution of his first beaming cordiality. Braith's constraint was even more marked. He had turned quite white.
And the dregs of drink, a thorough toper will tell you, never leave him. He is drunk on Monday with his Saturday's debauch. As "Drucken Wabster" of Barbie put it once, "When a body's hard up, his braith's a consolation."
You know I'm never hungry!" West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith's portion, but not eating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue Serpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, and Heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siege came hard on the poor.
Another policeman came behind, urging her forward. Somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. Braith's eyes met hers. She cowered still lower. A slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. A red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder. "Pardon! I think this is Mr Emanuel Pick." "No!" stammered the man, and started to run. Braith blocked his way.
"Dear Yvonne," he whispered, "can't you go back to to your family?" "No, Rex." "Never?" "I don't wish to, now. No, don't ask me why! I can't tell you. I am like all the rest all the rest. The Paris fever is only cured by death. Don't ask me, Rex; I am content indeed I am." Suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused Gethryn to spring hurriedly to his feet. "Rex!" It was Braith's voice.
As he stood in the door, looking off at the dark lake, he folded Yvonne's letter and placed it in his breast. He held Braith's a moment more and then laid it beside hers. The air was brisk; he buttoned his coat about him. Here and there a moonbeam touched the lapping edge of the water, or flashed out in the open stretch beyond the point of pines.
The parrot and the raven are two old fiends and will live forever. Mrs Gummidge periodically sheds litters of kittens, to Braith's indignation. He gives them to the concierge who sells them at a high price, I don't know for what purpose; I have two of the Gummidge children. The bull pups are pups no longer, but they are beauties and no mistake. All the same, wait until you see "Baby."
Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith's eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set.
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