’Mon cher, I am sorry not to find you at home, but I’ll wait at the cafe at the corner till half-past twelve.  It is now midi juste.’  That was the first.  The second ran:  ’I have waited till a quarter to one.  Now I am going to the Bleu for luncheon.  I shall be there till three.’  And each was signed with the initials, N.C.

It was not yet two, so I had plenty of time.  But you will believe that I didn’t loiter on that account.  I dashed out of the loge—­into the street—­down the Boulevard St. Michel—­into the Bleu, breathlessly.  At the far end Nina was seated before a marble table, with Madame Chanve in smiles and tears beside her.  I heard a little cry; I felt myself seized and enveloped for a moment by something like a whirlwind—­oh, but a very pleasant whirlwind, warm and fresh, and fragrant of violets; I received two vigorous kisses, one on either cheek; and then I was held off at arm’s length, and examined by a pair of laughing eyes.

And at last a voice—­rather a deep voice for a woman’s, with just a crisp edge to it, that might have been called slightly nasal, but was agreeable and individual—­a voice said:  ’En voila assez.  Come and sit down.’

She had finished her luncheon, and was taking coffee; and if the whole truth must be told, I’m afraid she was taking it with a petit-verre and a cigarette.  She wore an exceedingly simple black frock, with a bunch of violets in her breast, and a hat with a sweeping black feather and a daring brim.  Her dark luxurious hair broke into a riot of fluffy little curls about her forehead, and thence waved richly away to where it was massed behind; her cheeks glowed with a lovely colour (thanks, doubtless, to Yorkshire breezes; sweet are the uses of adversity); her eyes sparkled; her lips curved in a perpetual play of smiles, letting her delicate little teeth show themselves furtively; and suddenly I realised that this girl, whom I had never thought of save as one might think of one’s younger sister, suddenly I realised that she was a woman, and a radiantly, perhaps even a dangerously handsome woman.  I saw suddenly that she was not merely an attribute, an aspect, of another, not merely Alfred Childe’s daughter; she was a personage in herself, a personage to be reckoned with.

This sufficiently obvious perception came upon me with such force, and brought me such emotion, that I dare say for a little while I sat vacantly staring at her, with an air of preoccupation.  Anyhow, all at once she laughed, and cried out, ‘Well, when you get back...?’ and, ‘Perhaps,’ she questioned, ’perhaps you think it polite to go off wool-gathering like that?’ Whereupon I recovered myself with a start, and laughed too.

‘But say that you are surprised, say that you are glad, at least,’ she went on.

Surprised! glad!  But what did it mean?  What was it all about?

’I couldn’t stand it any longer, that’s all.  I have come home.  Oh, que c’est bon, que c’est bon, que c’est bon!’