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‘Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address.’

As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing flowers, and bits of architecture, first, and then faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have an extraordinary likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and, getting up, went over to the bookcase and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about what had happened, till it became absolutely necessary to do so.

When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the titlepage of the book. It was Gautier’s ‘Emaux et Camées,’ Charpentier’s Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of citron-green leather with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand ‘du supplice encore mal lavée,’ with its downy red hairs and its ‘doigts de faune.’ He glanced at his own white taper fingers, and passed on, till he came to those lovely verses upon Venice:

Sur une gamme chromatique,Le sein de perles ruisselant,La Vénus de l’AdriatiqueSort de l’eau son corps rose et blanc.

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