vainly attempts to combine theft with a vague, misshapen sense of honour, is a fool. I am a fool and a failure. Léontine is a failure because she thinks to combine the wanton and the mother. Clamart is a fool whom chance may see fit to save." He looked at me with a bitter smile.
Léontine's maid came in with the ice: a luscious, melting creation of peaches and cream, its spicy odour permeating the room.
"Where is Victor?" asked Léontine sharply.
"He has not returned, mam'selle," replied the pretty maid, and her eyes drifted to Ivan, then to me.
"That ice looks delicious," said Ivan. "I shall change my mind and ask for some. My throat is parched to-day."
Léontine smiled, helped herself and the dish was passed to me; but I declined, disliking sweets. Ivan helped himself abundantly. A yellow-striped wasp, lured by the sweet, entangled himself in Léontine's ice, and she watched its gluttonous struggles in a curious, fascinated way, then rang for the maid to serve her afresh. Ivan offered her his plate and, when she smilingly declined, waited until she should be served. Léontine rang again and when the maid did not appear her face clouded with irritation.
"What is the matter with my servants to-day?" she demanded fiercely. "I have never been attended in this haphazard way before."
"There is no hurry," said Ivan dreamily. "Eternity is before us."
"What is the matter with you, Count?" I asked.
