He mounted, four steps at a time, the stairs leading to Maurice's room.
The key is in the door. He enters and finds the traveller there,
standing in the midst of the disorder of open trunks.

"Maurice!"

"Amedee!"

What an embrace! How long they stood hand in hand, looking at each other
with happy smiles!

Maurice is more attractive and gracious than ever. His beauty is more
manly, and his golden moustache glistens against his sun-browned skin.
What a fine fellow! How he rejoiced at his friend's first success!

"I am certain that your book will turn everybody's head. I always told
you that you were a genuine poet. We shall see!"

As to himself, he was happy too. His mother had let him off from
studying law and allowed him to follow his vocation. He was going to
have a studio and paint. It had all been decided in Italy, where Madame
Roger had witnessed her son's enthusiasm over the great masters. Ah,
Italy! Italy! and he began to tell of his trip, show knickknacks and
souvenirs of all kinds that littered the room. He turned in his hands,
that he might show all its outlines, a little terra-cotta reduction of
the Antinous in the Museum of Naples. He opened a box, full to bursting,
of large photographs, and passed them to his friend with exclamations of
retrospective admiration.