ra--gossipy, light-hearted
letters, describing the people they were meeting, reporting
Godelinette's quaint observations upon England and English things,
explaining his hopes, his intentions, all very confidently--and then I
had no more. I wrote again, and still again, till, getting no answer,
of course I ceased to write. I was hurt and puzzled; but in the spring
we should meet in London, and could have it out. When the spring came,
however, my plans were altered: I had to go to America. I went by way
of Havre, expecting to stay six weeks, and was gone six years.

On my return to England I said to people, 'You have a brilliant young
composer named Pair. Can you put me in the way of procuring his
address?' The fortune he had come to seek he would surely have found;
he would be a known man. But people looked blank, and declared they
had never heard of him. I applied to music-publishers--with the same
result. I wrote to his uncle in Hampshire; the squire did not reply.
When I reached Paris I inquired of our friends there; they were as
ignorant as I. 'He must be dead,' I concluded. 'If he had lived, it is
impossible we should not have heard of him.' And I wondered what had
become of Godelinette.

Then another eight or ten years passed, and now, in a waterside public
at Bordeaux, an obscure old pianist was playing Pair's setting of
'Lavender's blue,' and stirring a hundred bitter-sweet far-away
memories of my friend. It was as if fifteen years were erased from my
life. The face of Godelinette was palpable before me--pale, with its
sad little smile, its bright appealing eyes. Edmund might have been
smoking across the table--I could hear his voice, I could have put out
my hand and touched him. And all round me were the streets, the
lights, the smells, the busy youthful _va-et-vient_ of the Latin
Quarter; and in my heart the yearning, half joy and all despair and
anguish, with which we think of the old days when we were young, of
how real and dear they were, of how irrecoverable they are.

And then the music stopped, the Brasserie des Quatre Vents became a
glaring reality, and the painted female sipping _eau-de-vie_ at my
elbow remarked plaintively, 'Tu n'es pas rigolo, toi. Veux-tu faire
une valse?'

'I must speak to your musician,' I said. 'Excuse me.'

He had played a bit of Pair's music. It was one chance in a thousand,
but I wanted to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the
composer. So I penetrated to th