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 of indifference from Peter and Clara or, perhaps, they had taken their air from him. The note-books had disappeared, although a pile of miscellaneous volumes, on top of which I spied Jean Lombard's l'Agonie, still occupied the corner. The table was covered with a cloth and the remains of a lunch, which had evidently consisted of veal kidneys, toast, and coffee. I detected the odour of Cœur de Jeannette and presently I descried a brûle-parfum, a tiny jade dragon, valiantly functioning. A pair of long white suède gloves and a black hat with a grey feather decorated the clock and candelabra on the mantelshelf, and a black and white check skirt, a pair of black silk stockings, and low patent-leather lady's shoes in trees were also to be seen, lying over a chair and on the floor.

Peter, however, attempted no explanations. Indeed, none was required, except perhaps for a catechumen. He began to talk immediately, in an easy conversational tone, evidently trying to cover my confusion. His manner reminded me that an intelligent Negro, who had written many books and met many people, had once told me that he was always obliged to spend at least ten minutes putting new white acquaintances at their ease, making them feel that it was unnecessary for them to put him at his ease. It is a curious fact that the man in an embarrassing situation is seldom as embarrassed as the man who breaks in upon it.

Peter asked many questions about what I had been