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Johann. Has he been working very hard recently?”
    Frau Veraguth looked into his face; she felt that he was sounding her out.
    â€œI believe so,” she said coolly. “He seldom speaks of his work.”
    â€œWhat is he working on now? Landscapes?”
    â€œHe often paints in the park, usually with models. Have you seen any of his pictures?”
    â€œYes, in Brussels.”
    â€œIs he showing in Brussels?”
    â€œOh yes, quite a number of pictures. I’ve brought the catalogue. You see, I should like to buy one of them and I’d be glad to know what you think of it.”
    He held out the catalogue and pointed to a small reproduction. She looked at the picture, leafed through the catalogue, and gave it back.
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Burkhardt, I’ve never seen the picture. I believe he painted it last fall in the Pyrenees and has never had it here.”
    After a pause she changed the subject. “You’ve given Pierre a lot of presents, that was very kind of you. Thank you.”
    â€œOh, little things. But you must permit me to give you something from Asia too. You don’t mind? I have some bits of cloth I’d like to show you, you must choose what you like.”
    By turning her polite sparring into a gracious, whimsical little battle of words, he managed to overcome her reserve and put her in a good humor. He went down to his treasure trove and returned with an armload of Indian fabrics. He spread out Malay batiks and hand-woven goods and threw laces and silks over the backs of the chairs, meanwhile telling her where he had found one piece or another, how he had haggled over it and purchased it for a song. The room became a colorful little bazaar. He asked her opinion, hung strips of lace over her arms, explained how it was made, and made her spread out the finest pieces, examine them, feel them, praise them, and finally keep them.
    â€œNo,” she laughed when he had done. “I’m reducing you to beggary. I can’t possibly keep all this.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” he laughed in return. “I’ve just planted another six thousand rubber trees, I’ll soon be a regular nabob.”
    When Veraguth came for him, he found the two of them chatting as merrily as could be. He was amazed to see how loquacious his wife had become, tried in vain to join in the conversation, and admired the presents rather clumsily.
    â€œForget it,” said his friend, “that’s the ladies’ department. Let’s go for a swim!”
    He drew his friend out into the open.
    â€œReally, your wife has hardly aged at all since I saw her last. She was in high good humor just now. You all seem to be doing all right. But what about your elder son? What’s he up to?”
    The painter shrugged his shoulders and frowned. “You’ll see him, he’ll be here any day now. I wrote you about him.”
    And suddenly he stopped still, bent toward his friend, looked him straight in the eye, and said softly, “You’ll see everything, Otto. I don’t feel the need of talking about it. You’ll see. —We really ought to be gay while you’re here. Let’s go down to the lake. I want to have a swimming race with you, like when we were boys.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Burkhardt, who did not seem to notice Johann’s uneasiness. “And you’ll win, old man, which wasn’t always the case. I’m ashamed to say so, but I’ve really developed a paunch.”
    It was late afternoon. The whole lake lay in the shadow, a light wind played in the treetops, and across the narrow blue island of sky which the park left open over the water flew light violet clouds, all of the same shape and kind, in a brotherly row, thin and elongated like willow leaves. The two men stood outside the little bathhouse hidden in the bushes; the lock refused to open.
    â€œNever mind,” said Veraguth.