On the day of his departure, he climbed the towers of Notre Dame, and lingered for half-an-hour in pleasant solitude among the stone monsters.  His reverie was broken by an English voice, loud and animated: 

’Come and look at this old demon of a bird; he has always been a favourite of mine.—­Sure you’re not tired, Miss Bella?  When you want to rest, Miss Lily, mind you say so at once.  What a day!  What a sky!—­When I was last up here I had my hat blown away.  I watched it as far as Montmartre.  A fact!  Never knew such a wind in my life —­unless it was that tornado I told you about—­Hollo!  By the powers, if that isn’t Earwaker!  Confound you, old fellow!  How the deuce do you do?  What a glorious meeting!  Hadn’t the least idea where you were!—­Let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs. Jacox—­and to Miss Jacox—­and to Miss Lily.  They all know you thoroughly well.  Now who would have thought of our meeting up here!  Glorious!’

It was with some curiosity that Earwaker regarded the companions of his friend Malkin—­whose proximity was the last thing he could have imagined, as only a few weeks ago he had heard of the restless fellow’s departing, on business unknown, for Boston, US.  Mrs. Jacox, the widow whose wrongs had made such an impression on Malkin, announced herself, in a thin, mealy face and rag-doll figure, as not less than forty, though her irresponsible look made it evident that years profited her nothing, and suggested an explanation of the success with which she had been victimised.  She was stylishly dressed, and had the air of enjoying an unusual treat.  Her children were of more promising type, though Earwaker would hardly have supposed them so old as he knew them to be.  Bella, just beyond her fourteenth year, had an intelligent prettiness, but was excessively shy; in giving her hand to the stranger she flushed over face and neck, and her bosom palpitated visibly.  Her sister, two years younger, was a mere child, rather self-conscious, but of laughing temper.  Their toilet suited ill with that of their mother; its plainness and negligence might have passed muster in London, but here, under the lucent sky, it seemed a wrong to their budding maidenhood.

‘Mrs. Jacox is on the point of returning to England,’ Malkin explained.  ’I happened to meet her, by chance—­I’m always meeting my friends by chance; you, for instance, Earwaker.  She is so good as to allow me to guide her and the young ladies to a few of the sights of Paris.’

‘O Mr. Malkin!’ exclaimed the widow, with a stress on the exclamation peculiar to herself—­two notes of deprecating falsetto.  ’How can you say it is good of me, when I’m sure there are no words for your kindness to us all!  If only you knew our debt to your friend, Mr Earwaker!  To our dying day we must all remember it.  It is entirely through Mr. Malkin that we are able to leave that most disagreeable Rouen—­a place I shall never cease to think of with horror.  O Mr Earwaker! you have only to think of that wretched railway station, stuck between two black tunnels!  O Mr. Malkin!’