scrupulous cleanness which his things always wore, and there was the
"Apache" picture waiting for her to take, in a new gold frame; and the
"London Fog" seemed to be advanced, too; he had evidently worked at it
late, because his palette and brushes, still wet, were on a box beside
it, and on a chair near was his violin. He was no born musician like
Mirko, but played very well. The palette and brushes showed he must have
put them hurriedly down. What for? Why? Had some message come for him?
Had he heard news? And a chill feeling gripped her heart. She looked
about to see if Mirko had written a letter, or one of his funny little
postcards? No, there was nothing--nothing she had not seen except, yes,
just this one on a picture of the town. Only a few words: "Thank
Chérisette for her letter, Agatha is _très jolie_, but does not
understand the violin, and wants to play it herself. And heavens! the
noise!" How he managed to post these cards was always a mystery; they
were marked with the mark of doubling up twice, so it showed he
concealed them somewhere and perhaps popped them into a pillar-box, when
out for a walk. This one was dated two days ago. Could anything have
happened since? She burned with impatience for Mimo to come in.

A cheap, little clock struck seven. Where could he be? The minutes
seemed to drag into an eternity. All sorts of possibilities struck her,
and then she controlled herself and became calm.

There was a large photograph of her mother, which Mimo had colored
really well. It was in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, and she
gazed and gazed at that, and whispered aloud in the gloomy room:

"_Maman, adorée!_ Take care of your little one now, even if he must come
to you soon."