“Go on,” said Cobb.

“It was, in fact, impressive,” said Savinien.  “There is, not far from here, a shop where I am accustomed to buy my cigarettes.  A small place, you know, a hole in the wall, with a young ugly woman behind the counter.  One enters, one murmurs ‘Maryland,’ one receives one’s yellow packet, one pays, one salutes, one departs.  There is nothing in the place to invite one to linger; never in my life have I said more than those two words—­’Maryland’ on entering and ‘Madame’ on leaving—­to the good creature of the shop.  I do not know her name, nor she mine.  Ordinarily she is reading when I enter; she puts down her book to serve me as one might put down a knife and fork; it must often happen that she interrupts herself in the middle of a word.  She gets as far as: 

“‘Jean ki——­’ then I enter.  ‘Maryland,’ I murmur, receive my packet, and pay.  ‘Madame!’ I raise my hat and depart.  Not till then does she know the continuation:—­’ssed Marie,’ or ‘cked the Vicomte,’ whichever it may be.  Not a luxurious reader, that one, you see.

“Well, this morning I enter as usual.  There she sits, book in hand.  ‘Maryland’ I murmur.  For the first time in my experience of her she does not at once lay the book, face downwards, on the counter, and turn to the shelf behind her to reach me my cigarettes.  No, the good creature is absorbed.  ‘Pardon,’ I say, rather louder.  She looks up, and it is clear she is impatient at being disturbed.  ‘Maryland,’ I request.  She puts down the book and fumbles for a packet.  But I am curious to know what book it is that holds her so strongly, what genius of a romancer has aimed so surely at her intelligence.  I turn the book round with a finger.  The shop, the shelves, the horse’s face of Madame the proprietress swim before me.  I could dance; I could weep; I could embrace the lady in the pure joy of an artist appreciated and requited.  For of all the books ever printed upon paper, that book is mine.  My verses!  My songs of little lives, they grasp at her and will not let go, like importunate children; she is not easily nor willingly free of them when affairs claim her.  Nunc dimittis!”

“What did you do?” inquired Cobb.  “Give her a watch, or what?”

“My friend,” said Savinien, “I was careful.  To do a foolish or a graceless thing would have been to dethrone for her a poet.  There was need of a spacious and becoming gesture.  I opened her book at the fly-leaf, and reached across to the comptoir for a pen.  She turned at that and stared, possibly fearful, poor creature, that it was the till that attracted me.  I took the pen and splashed down on the fly-leaf of the book my name in full—­a striking signature!  Then without a further word that might make an anti-climax, I took my cigarettes and departed.  I was so thrilled, so exalted, that it was five minutes before I remembered to be afraid.”