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He sat at his piano and in a composer's
raucous varied voice, imitated the imaginary _timbres_ of orchestral
instruments. Sent forth, Mrs. Van Kuyp and Rentgen slowly walked into
the little Parc of Auteuil, once the joy of the Goncourts.
"Musicians are as selfish as the sea," he asserted, as they sat upon a
bench of tepid iron. She did not demur. The weather had exhausted her
patience; she was young and fond of the open air--the woods made an
irresistible picture this day. The critic watched her changing,
dissatisfied face.
"Shall we ride?" he suddenly asked. Before she could shake a negative
head, he quickly uttered the words that had been hovering in her mind
for hours.
"Or, shall we go to the Bois?" She started. "What an idea! Go to the
Bois without Richard, without my husband?"
"Why not?" he inquired, "it's not far away. Send him a wire asking him
to join us; it will do him good after his labours. Come, Madame Van
Kuyp, come Alixe, my child." He paused. Her eyes expanded. "I'll go,"
she quietly announced--"that is, if you grant me a favour.


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