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The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.

“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined.

There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher.

“Hysterics?” asked Leon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?”

“How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.

“Oh, woman, woman!” said Leon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”

“You are heartless, Leon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”

“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, M’AMOUR?”

“He is a man,” she answered.

“You hear that?” said Leon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”

“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.

“I am a troubadour,” replied Leon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could I do as much?”

“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.

“Egad,” said Leon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”

“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”

“My dear,” answered Leon impressively, “I know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something appropriate.”

Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the undergraduate’s mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.

“Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira.

“I have it,” cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre Dupont’s:-

“Savez-vous ou gite,
Mai, ce joli mois?”

Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world’s centre for himself.

He alone – and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three – took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.

“Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices in the turnip-field.

The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.

From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.