Ste. Marie leaned upon the parapet of the bridge, arms folded before him and eyes afar.  He began to sing, a demi-voix, a little phrase out of Louise—­an invocation to Paris—­and the Englishman stirred uneasily beside him.  It seemed to Hartley that to stand on a bridge, in a top-hat and evening clothes, and sing operatic airs while people passed back and forth behind you, was one of the things that are not done.  He tried to imagine himself singing in the middle of Westminster Bridge at half-past eight of an evening, and he felt quite hot all over at the thought.  It was not done at all, he said to himself.  He looked a little nervously at the people who were passing, and it seemed to him that they stared at him and at the unconscious Ste. Marie, though in truth they did nothing of the sort.  He turned back and touched his friend on the arm, saying: 

“I think we’d best be getting along, you know.”  But Ste. Marie was very far away, and did not hear.  So then he fell to watching the man’s dark and handsome face, and to thinking how little the years at Eton and the year or two at Oxford had set any real stamp upon him.  He would never be anything but Latin, in spite of his Irish mother and his public school.  Hartley thought what a pity that was.  As Englishmen go, he was not illiberal, but, no more than he could have altered the color of his eyes, could he have believed that anything foreign would not be improved by becoming English.  That was born in him, as it is born in most Englishmen, and it was a perfectly simple and honest belief.  He felt a deeper affection for this handsome and volatile young man whom all women loved, and who bade fair to spend his life at their successive feet—­for he certainly had never shown the slightest desire to take up any sterner employment—­he felt a deeper affection for Ste. Marie than for any other man he knew, but he had always wished that Ste. Marie were an Englishman, and he had always felt a slight sense of shame over his friend’s un-English ways.

After a moment he touched him again on the arm, saying: 

“Come along!  We shall be late, you know.  You can finish your little concert another time.”

“Eh!” cried Ste. Marie.  “Quoi, donc?” He turned with a start.

“Oh yes!” said he.  “Yes, come along!  I was mooning.  Allons!  Allons, my old!” He took Hartley’s arm and began to shove him along at a rapid walk.  “I will moon no more,” he said.  “Instead, you shall tell me about the wonderful Miss Benham whom everybody is talking about.  Isn’t there something odd connected with the family?  I vaguely recall something unusual—­some mystery or misfortune or something.  But first a moment!  One small moment, my old.  Regard me that!” They had come to the end of the bridge, and the great Place de la Concorde lay before them.

“In all the world,” said Ste. Marie—­and he spoke the truth—­“there is not another such square.  Regard it, mon brave!  Bow yourself before it!  It is a miracle.”