And yet, how strange that I should care, since all his life he had declined to recognize me as what I was!  Ah, I should have been glad to shout his age, his dyes, his artificialities, to all the crowd, so to touch him where it would most pain him!  For was he not the vainest man in the whole world?  How well I knew his vulnerable point:  the monstrous depth of his vanity in that pretense of youth which he preserved through superhuman pains and a genius of a valet, most excellently!  I had much to pay Antonio for myself, more for my father, most for my mother.  This was why that last of all the world I would have wished that old fortune-hunter to know how far I had been reduced!

Then I rejoiced about that change which my unreal baldness produced in me, giving me a look of forty years instead of twenty-four, so that my oldest friend must take at least three stares to know me.  Also, my costume would disguise me from the few acquaintances I had in Paris (if they chanced to cross the Seine), as they had only seen me in the shabbiest; while, at my last meeting with Antonio, I had been as fine in the coat as now.

Yet my encouragement was not so joyful that my gaze lifted often.  On the very last day, in the afternoon when my observances were most and noisiest, I lifted my eyes but once during the final half-hour—­but such a one that was!

The edge of that beautiful grey pongee skirt came upon the lid of my lowered eyelid like a cool shadow over hot sand.  A sergent had just made many of the people move away, so there remained only a thin ring of the laughing pantaloons about me, when this divine skirt presented its apparition to me.  A pair of North-American trousers accompanied it, turned up to show the ankle-bones of a rich pair of stockings; neat, enthusiastic and humorous, I judged them to be; for, as one may discover, my only amusement during my martyrdom—­if this misery can be said to possess such alleviatings—­had been the study of feet, pantaloons, and skirts.  The trousers in this case detained my observation no time.  They were but the darkest corner of the chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt—­the mellow glow of gold was all across the grey skirt.

How shall I explain myself, how make myself understood?  Shall I be thought sentimentalistic or but mad when I declare that my first sight of the grey pongee skirt caused me a thrill of excitation, of tenderness, and—­oh-i-me!—­of self-consciousness more acute than all my former mortifications.  It was so very different from all other skirts that had shown themselves to me those sad days, and you may understand that, though the pantaloons far outnumbered the skirts, many hundreds of the latter had also been objects of my gloomy observation.

This skirt, so unlike those which had passed, presented at once the qualifications of its superiority.  It had been constructed by an artist, and it was worn by a lady.  It did not pine, it did not droop; there was no more an atom of hanging too much than there was a portion inflated by flamboyancy; it did not assert itself; it bore notice without seeking it.  Plain but exquisite, it was that great rarity—­goodness made charming.