“I am the American tourist,” he declared, “with Baedeker for my Bible, who desires to be shown everything.  And I have already discovered that the legend of the fabulous wealth of the Indies is still in force here.  There are many who are willing to believe that in spite of my modest appearance—­maybe because of it—­I have sailed over in a galleon filled with gold.  Already I have been approached from every side by confidential gentlemen who announced that they spoke English—­one of them said ’American’—­who have offered to show me many things, and who have betrayed enough interest in me to inquire whether I were married or single.”

Honora laughed.  They were seated in the balcony by this time, and he had the volume of memoirs on his knee, fingering it idly.

“What did you say to them?” she asked.

“I told them I was the proud father of ten children,” he replied.  “That seemed to stagger them, but only for a moment.  They offered to take us all to the Louvre.”

“Peter, you are ridiculous!  But, in spite of your nationality, you don’t look exactly gullible.”

“That is a relief,” he said.  “I had begun to think I ought to leave my address and my watch with the Consul General . . . .”

Of such a nature was the first insidious rupture of that routine she had grown to look upon as changeless for the years to come, of the life she had chosen for its very immutable quality.  Even its pangs of loneliness had acquired a certain sweet taste.  Partly from a fear of a world that had hurt her, partly from fear of herself, she had made her burrow deep, that heat and cold, the changing seasons, and love and hate might be things far removed.  She had sought to remove comparisons, too, from the limits of her vision; to cherish and keep alive, indeed, such regrets as she had, but to make no new ones.

Often had she thought of Peter Erwin, and it is not too much to say that he had insensibly grown into an ideal.  He had come to represent to her the great thing she had missed in life, missed by feverish searching in the wrong places, digging for gold where the ground had glittered.  And, if the choice had been given her, she would have preferred his spiritual to his bodily companionship—­for a while, at least.  Some day, when she should feel sure that desire had ceased to throb, when she should have acquired an unshakable and absolute resignation, she would see him.  It is not too much to say, if her feeling be not misconstrued and stretched far beyond her own conception of it, that he was her one remaining interest in the world.  She had scanned the letters of her aunt and uncle for knowledge of his doings, and had felt her curiosity justified by a certain proprietorship that she did not define, faith in humankind, or the lack of it, usually makes itself felt through one’s comparative contemporaries.  That her uncle was a good man, for instance, had no such effect upon Honora, as the fact that Peter was a good man.  And that he had held a true course had gradually become a very vital thing to her, perhaps the most vital thing; and she could have imagined no greater personal calamity now than to have seen him inconsistent.  For there are such men, and most people have known them.  They are the men who, unconsciously, keep life sweet.