to the colony of her compatriots in Paris; in whose numbers there were some, by no means unrecognized, who had defied the conventions more than she.  Hugh Chiltern’s reputation, and the general knowledge of his career, had no doubt aided to increase this sympathy, but the dignity of her conduct since his death was at the foundation of it.  Sometimes, on her walks and drives, she saw people bowing to her, and recognized friends or acquaintances of what seemed to her like a former existence.

Such had been her life in Paris until a certain day in early September, a month before this chapter opens.  It was afternoon, and she was sitting in the balcony cutting a volume of memoirs when she heard the rattle of a cab on the cobbles below, and peered curiously over the edge of the railing.  Although still half a block away, the national characteristics of the passenger were sufficiently apparent.  He was an American—­of that she was sure.  And many Americans did not stray into that quarter.  The length of his legs, for one thing, betrayed him:  he found the seat of the fiacre too low, and had crossed one knee over the other.  Other and less easily definable attributes he did not lack.  And as he leaned against the faded blue cushions regarding with interest the buildings he passed, he seemed, like an ambassador, to convert the cab in which he rode into United States territory.  Then she saw that it was Peter Erwin.

She drew back her head from the balcony rail, and tried to sit still and to think, but she was trembling as one stricken with a chill.  The cab stopped; and presently, after an interval, his card was handed her.  She rose, and stood for a moment with her hand against the wall before she went into the salon.  None of the questions she had asked herself were answered.  Was she glad to see him? and what would be his attitude towards her?  When she beheld him standing before her she had strength only to pronounce his name.

He came forward quickly and took her hand and looked down into her face.  She regarded him tremulously, instinctively guessing the vital importance of this moment for him; and she knew then that he had been looking forward to it in mingled hope and dread, as one who gazes seaward after a night of tempest for the ship he has seen at dusk in the offing.  What had the tempest done to her?  Such was his question.  And her heart leaped as she saw the light growing in his eyes, for it meant much to her that he should see that she was not utterly dismantled.  She fell; his own hand tremble as he relinquished hers.  He was greatly moved; his voice, too, betrayed it.

“You see I have found you,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered; “—­why did you come?”

“Why have I always come to you, when it was possible?” he asked.

“No one ever had such a friend, Peter.  Of that I am sure:’ 

“I wanted to see Paris,” he said, “before I grew too decrepit to enjoy it.”