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 After he had left her that evening, with the prospect of an appointment next day which he hoped to heaven wouldn't conflict with a telephone message from Montparnasse, he spent hours blowing smoke toward his ceiling and trying to disentangle his two personalities. For there were parts of him still alive, far more alive than he had suspected, that belonged to New England, and parts that belonged to Paris—and never the twain shall meet, he groaned.

Again he telephoned to the house on Montparnasse, but the concierge informed him that Mlle. Vaudreuil was stillaway. In desperation he asked to speak to M. Hellgren but was told that the sculptor had been summoned to Bordeaux again and would not return for several days. Again he left his message and repeated his wish to be notified upon Olga's arrival.

She might, he thought reproachfully, at least have written a few lines to tide him over the interval. But he had often noticed that to most people the act of writing was by no means as glib and facile as it was to himself. And just to give himself the satisfaction of not leaving his situation with Olga entirely in statu quo he wrote a short note, addressing it in care of the aunt at Enghien. Having done that, and having pictured her reception of it with a vividness that made its reception a reality in his own mind, he had the illusion that their plan was progressing, and that gave