They were passing the corner of the Chamber of Deputies, which faces the Pont de la Concorde.  Ste. Marie pulled out his watch and looked at it.

“Eight-fifteen,” said he.  “What time are we asked for—­eight-thirty?  That means nine:  It’s an English house, and nobody will be on time.  It’s out of fashion to be prompt nowadays.”

“I should hardly call the Marquis de Saulnes English, you know,” objected Hartley.

“Well, his wife is,” said the other, “and they’re altogether English in manner.  Dinner won’t be before nine.  Shall we get out, and walk across the bridge and up the Champs-Elysees?  I should like to, I think.  I like to walk at this time of the evening—­between the daylight and the dark.”  Hartley nodded a rather reluctant assent, and Ste. Marie prodded the pear-shaped cocher in the back with his stick.  So they got down at the approach to the bridge, Ste. Marie gave the cocher a piece of two francs, and they turned away on foot.  The pear-shaped one looked at the coin in his fat hand as if it were something unclean and contemptible—­something to be despised.  He glanced at the dial of his taximeter, which had registered one franc twenty-five, and pulled the flag up.  He spat gloomily out into the street, and his purple lips moved in words.  He seemed to say something like “Sale diable de metier!” which, considering the fact that he had just been overpaid, appears unwarrantably pessimistic in tone.  Thereafter he spat again, picked up his reins and jerked them, saying: 

“He, Jean Baptiste!  Uip, uip!” The unemotional white horse turned up the boulevard, trotting evenly at its steady pace, head down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went.  It occurs to me that the white horse was probably unique.  I doubt that there was another horse in Paris rejoicing in that extraordinary name.

But the two young men walked slowly on across the Pont de la Concorde.  They went in silence, for Hartley was thinking still of Miss Helen Benham, and Ste. Marie was thinking of Heaven knows what.  His gloom was unaccountable unless he had really meant what he said about feeling calamity in the air.  It was very unlike him to have nothing to say.  Midway of the bridge he stopped and turned to look out over the river, and the other man halted beside him.  The dusk was thickening almost perceptibly, but it was yet far from dark.  The swift river ran leaden beneath them, and the river boats, mouches and hirondelles, darted silently under the arches of the bridge, making their last trips for the day.  Away to the west, where their faces were turned, the sky was still faintly washed with color, lemon and dusky orange and pale thin green.  A single long strip of cirrus cloud was touched with pink, a lifeless old rose, such as is popular among decorators for the silk hangings of a woman’s boudoir.  And black against this pallid wash of colors the tour Eiffel stood high and slender and rather ghostly.  By day it is an ugly thing, a preposterous iron finger upthrust by man’s vanity against God’s serene sky; but the haze of evening drapes it in a merciful semi-obscurity and it is beautiful.