"We'll leave him quietly awhile to himself there," said he. "What do you say to a game of chess in the meantime?"
"You are a cheerful soul, Ferdinand," said I.
He stopped.
"Why not?
Doesn't do him any harm, doesn't do him any good.
If you were always thinking of that sort of thing, why nobody would ever laugh again, Bob."
"You're right there," said I. "Then let's have a quick game."
We set up the men and began.
Ferdinand won without much difficulty.
He mated me with rook and bishop without using the queen.
"Don't know how you do it," said I. "You look as if you haven't been to sleep for three nights. And yet ..you play like a pirate."
"I always play well when I'm melancholy," replied Ferdinand.
"Why are you melancholy?"
"Ach, I don't know.
Because it's getting dark.
All decent people are melancholy when evening comes.
Not for any particular reason.
Just on general grounds."
"But only when.they're alone," said I.
"Of course.
The hour of the shadows.
The hour of loneliness.
The hour when cognac tastes best."
He fetched a bottle and two glasses.
"Shouldn't we go in to the baker?" I asked.
"In a minute." He poured out. "Pros't, Bob. Because we all must die."
"Pros't, Ferdinand.
Because we're still here."
"Well," said he, "it hasn't wanted much sometimes.
Let's have one to that too."
"Right."
We went back into the studio.
It had grown darker.
The baker with hunched shoulders was still standing before the picture.
He looked pitifully lost in the great, bare room, and it struck me he had become smaller.
"Shall I pack up the picture for you?" asked Ferdinand.
He gave a start of alarm.
"No."
"Then I'll send it to-morrow?"
"Can't it remain here still?" asked the baker hesitantly.
"But why?" replied Ferdinand astonished, and coming nearer. "Don't you like it?"
"Yes—but I would sooner leave it here."
"I don't understand."
The baker looked at me for help.
I understood—he was afraid to hang the picture at home with the black bitch.
Perhaps, too, he felt a certain fear before the dead woman, of taking her there.
"But Ferdinand," said I, "the picture can stay here, can't it, if it is paid for?"
"That, of course."
The baker, relieved, took his chequebook from his pocket.
The two went to the table.