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Two
or
three
weeks
passed
.
One
morning
,
having
come
to
a
pause
in
my
work
,
I
thought
I
would
give
myself
a
holiday
,
and
I
went
to
the
Louvre
.
I
wandered
about
looking
at
the
pictures
I
knew
so
well
,
and
let
my
fancy
play
idly
with
the
emotions
they
suggested
.
I
sauntered
into
the
long
gallery
,
and
there
suddenly
saw
Stroeve
.
I
smiled
,
for
his
appearance
,
so
rotund
and
yet
so
startled
,
could
never
fail
to
excite
a
smile
,
and
then
as
I
came
nearer
I
noticed
that
he
seemed
singularly
disconsolate
.
He
looked
woebegone
and
yet
ridiculous
,
like
a
man
who
has
fallen
into
the
water
with
all
his
clothes
on
,
and
,
being
rescued
from
death
,
frightened
still
,
feels
that
he
only
looks
a
fool
.
Turning
round
,
he
stared
at
me
,
but
I
perceived
that
he
did
not
see
me
.
His
round
blue
eyes
looked
harassed
behind
his
glasses
.
"
Stroeve
,
"
I
said
.
He
gave
a
little
start
,
and
then
smiled
,
but
his
smile
was
rueful
.
"
Why
are
you
idling
in
this
disgraceful
fashion
?
"
I
asked
gaily
.
"
It
’
s
a
long
time
since
I
was
at
the
Louvre
.
I
thought
I
’
d
come
and
see
if
they
had
anything
new
.
"
"
But
you
told
me
you
had
to
get
a
picture
finished
this
week
.
"
"
Strickland
’
s
painting
in
my
studio
.
"
"
Well
?
"
"
I
suggested
it
myself
.
He
’
s
not
strong
enough
to
go
back
to
his
own
place
yet
.
I
thought
we
could
both
paint
there
.
Lots
of
fellows
in
the
Quarter
share
a
studio
.
I
thought
it
would
be
fun
.
I
’
ve
always
thought
it
would
be
jolly
to
have
someone
to
talk
to
when
one
was
tired
of
work
.
"
He
said
all
this
slowly
,
detaching
statement
from
statement
with
a
little
awkward
silence
,
and
he
kept
his
kind
,
foolish
eyes
fixed
on
mine
.
They
were
full
of
tears
