V.
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T was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his first thought was of Valentine.
The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen’s sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.
He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul’s sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed, washing the asphalt walk which led to the studio.
“Monsieur Elliott?” he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, “je ne sais pas.”
“And Monsieur Clifford,”—began Hastings somewhat astonished.
“Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge with fine irony, “will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in.”
Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fiery eulogy on people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep He also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.
“I do not think I will come in,” said Hastings.
