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'I smell your cigar。 Delicious！ Give me one directly！'
'Wait a minute。 Besides my cigar； do you smell anything elsevile；
abominable； overpowering； indescribable； never…never…never…smelt
before？'
The scene…painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of
the language addressed to him。 'The room is as fresh and sweet as a
room can be；' he answered。 As he spoke； he looked back with
astonishment at Francis Westwick； standing outside in the corridor； and
eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised
disgust。
The Parisian director approached his English colleague； and looked at
him with grave and anxious scrutiny。
'You see； my friend； here are two of us； with as good noses as yours；
who smell nothing。 If you want evidence from more noses； look there！'
He pointed to two little English girls； at play in the corridor。 'The door of
my room is wide openand you know how fast a smell can travel。 Now
listen； while I appeal to these innocent noses； in the language of their own
dismal island。 My little loves； do you sniff a nasty smell hereha？' The
children burst out laughing； and answered emphatically； 'No。' 'My good
Westwick；' the Frenchman resumed； in his own language； 'the conclusion
is surely plain？ There is something wrong； very wrong； with your own
nose。 I recommend you to see a medical man。'
Having given that advice； he returned to his room； and shut out the
horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief。 Francis left the hotel； by
the lanes that led to the Square of St。 Mark。 The night…breeze soon revived
him。 He was able to light a cigar； and to think quietly over what had
happened。
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CHAPTER XIX
Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades； Francis walked slowly up
and down the noble open space of the square； bathed in the light of the
rising moon。
Without being aware of it himself； he was a thorough materialist。 The
strange effect produced on him by the roomfollowing on the other
strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead brother
exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man。
'Perhaps；' he reflected； 'my temperament is more imaginative than I
supposed it to beand this is a trick played on me by my own fancy？ Or；
perhaps； my friend is right； something is physically amiss with me？ I don't
feel ill； certainly。 But that is no safe criterion sometimes。 I am not going
to sleep in that abominable room to…night I can well wait till to…morrow
to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor or not。 In the mean time； the
hotel doesn't seem likely to supply me with the subject of a piece。 A
terrible smell from an invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea。 But it has
one drawback。 If I realise it on the stage； I shall drive the audience out of
the theatre。'
As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion； he
became aware of a lady； dressed entirely in black； who was observing him
with marked attention。 'Am I right in supposing you to be Mr。 Francis
Westwick？' the lady asked； at the moment when he looked at her。
'That is my name； madam。 May I inquire to whom I have the honour
of speaking？'
'We have only met once；' she answered a little evasively； 'when your
late brother introduced me to the members of his family。 I wonder if you
have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion？' She
lifted her veil as she spoke； and turned so that the moonlight rested on her
face。
Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most
cordially dislikedthe widow of his dead brother； the first Lord Montbarry。
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He frowned as he looked at her。 His experience on the stage； gathered at
innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorely tried his temper； had
accustomed him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him。
'I remember you；' he said。 'I thought you were in America！'
She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner； she simply
stopped him when he lifted his hat； and turned to leave her。
'Let me walk with you for a few minutes；' she quietly replied。 'I have
something to say to you。'
He showed her his cigar。 'I am smoking；'he said。
'I don't mind smoking。'
After that； there was nothing to be done （short of downright brutality）
but to yield。 He did it with the worst possible grace。 'Well？' he resumed。
'What do you want of me？'
'You shall hear directly； Mr。 Westwick。 Let me first tell you what my
position is。 I am alone in the world。 To the loss of my husband has now
been added another bereavement； the loss of my companion in America；
my brotherBaron Rivar。'
The reputation of the Baron； and the doubt which scandal had thrown
on his assumed relationship to the Countess； were well known to Francis。
'Shot in a gambling…saloon？' he asked brutally。
'The question is a perfectly natural one on your part；' she said； with the
impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain
occasions。 'As a native of horse…racing England； you belong to a nation
of gamblers。 My brother died no extraordinary death； Mr。 Westwick。
He sank； with many other unfortunate people； under a fever prevalent in a
Western city which we happened to visit。 The calamity of his loss made
the United States unendurable to me。 I left by the first steamer that sailed
from New Yorka French vessel which brought me to Havre。 I
continued my lonely journey to the South of France。 And then I went on
to Venice。'
'What does all this matter to me？' Francis thought to himself。 She
paused； evidently expecting him to say something。 'So you have come to
Venice？' he said carelessly。 'Why？'
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'Because I couldn't help it；' she answered。
Francis looked at her with cynica