his own poetry he had paused and stood looking at Heidenmauer. The young German nodded and laughed and, ineffectively, spontaneously, greeted him with a friendly "Was sagen Sie dazu?" I saw Vendemer change color; he blushed red, and, for an instant, as he stood wavering, I thought he was going to retreat. But I beckoned him in, and on the divan beside me patted a place for him to sit.
He came in, but didn't take this place; he went and stood before the fire to warm his feet, turning his back to us. Heidenmauer played and played, and after a little Vendemer turned round; he looked about him for a seat, dropped into it, and sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Presently Heidenmauer called out, in French, above the music, "I like your songs—I like them immensely!" but the young Frenchman neither spoke nor moved. When, however, five minutes later Heidenmauer stopped, he sprang up with an entreaty to him to go on, to go on, for the love of God. "Foilà—foilà!" cried the musician, and with hands for an instant sus-
