"You are the Vicomte d'Humières?"
"I am."
"I am afraid—it is unpardonable remissness on my part; but I am afraid that, if I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, it is a pleasure which has escaped my memory."
"It is not that we have ever met before—no, it is not that. It is my name to which you are not a stranger."
Mr. Lovell glanced again at the card.
"Your name? I am afraid, Vicomte, that I do not remember having ever heard your name before."
"Ah! Is that so?" The stranger regarded his polished boots. He spoke as if he were addressing himself to them. "Is it possible that she can have given another name? No, it is not possible. She is capable of many things—I do not believe she is capable of that.' He looked up again at Mr. Lovell. "My business with you, Mr. Lovell, is of rather a peculiar kind. You will think, perhaps, that mine is rather a singular errand. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife."
'With the—did you say, with the—residence of your wife?"
'That is what I said. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife." The artist stared.
'But, so far as I am aware, I do not know your wife.'
"That is absurd. I do not say, Mr. Lovell, that you are conscious of the absurdity. But still—it is absurd—I was not aware that you were acquainted with my wife until I learnt the fact, this morning, at your Academy."
"At our Academy?"
"Precisely. Upon the walls of your Academy of Painting, Mr. Lovell."
Mr. Lovell began to wonder if his visitor was not an amiable French lunatic.
"Is that not rather a singular place in which to learn such a fact?"
"It is a singular place. It is a very singular place, indeed. But that has nothing to do with the matter. It is as I say. You have a picture, Mr. Lovell, at the Academy?"
"I have."
"It is a portrait."
"Pardon me, it is not a portrait."
"Pardon me, Mr. Lovell, in my turn; it is a portrait. As a portrait, it is a perfect portrait. It is a portrait of my wife."
"Of your wife! You are dreaming!"
"You flatter me, Mr. Lovell. Is it that you suppose I am an imbecile? Are not the features of a wife familiar to a husband? Very good. I am the husband of my wife. Your picture, Mr. Lovell, is a portrait of my wife."
"I cannot but think you have mistaken some other picture for mine. Mine is a simple study of a woman's face. It is called 'A Vision of the Night.'"
"Precisely. And 'A Vision of the Night'—is my wife."
"It is impossible!"
"Do I understand you to say, Mr. Lovell, of a thing which I say is so that it is impossible?"
The Vicomte rose. His voice had a very significant intonation. Mr. Lovell resented it.
"I do not know, Vicomte, that I am called upon to explain to you. But, in face of your remarkable statement, I will volunteer an explanation. I saw the face, which I have painted, in a dream."
"Indeed; is that so? What sort of dream was it in which you saw my wife's face, Mr. Lovell?"
The young man flushed. The stranger's tone was distinctly offensive.
"It was in a dream which I dreamt last August at Spa."
"Ah! This is curious. At what hotel where you stopping last August at Spa?"
"At the Hôtel de Flandre—though I don't know why you ask."
"So! We approach a point, at last. Last August, my wife and I, we were at Spa. We stayed, my wife and I, at the Hôtel de Flandre. It was at the Hôtel de Flandre my wife left me. I have never seen her since. Perhaps, Mr. Gerald Lovell, you will be so good as to inform me what sort of dream it was in which you saw my wife's face, at the Hôtel de Flandre, last August, at Spa?"
Mr. Lovell hesitated. He perceived that caution was advisable. He felt that if he entered into minute particulars of his dream, there might be a misunderstanding with the Vicomte. So he temporized—or he endeavoured to.
"I have already told you that I saw the face in my picture in a dream. It is the simple fact—that I have no other explanation to offer."
"Is that so?"
"That is so."
"Very good, so far, Mr. Gerald Lovell. I thought it possible that you might have some explanation of this kind to offer. I was at the Academy with a friend. When I perceived my wife's portrait on the walls, and
