compromising hand, that she 'hated' them.

VII.

I am not sure whether it was late in April or early in May that Nina
left us. But one day towards the middle of October, coming home from
the restaurant where I had lunched, I found in my letter box, in the
concierge's room, two half sheets of paper, folded, with the corners
turned down, and my name superscribed in pencil. The handwriting
startled me a little--and yet, no, it was impossible. Then I hastened
to unfold, and read, and of course it was the impossible which had
happened.

'Mon cher, I am sorry not to find you at home, but I'll wait at the
cafe at the corner till half-past twelve. It is now midi juste.' That
was the first. The second ran: 'I have waited till a quarter to one.
Now I am going to the Bleu for luncheon. I shall be there till three.'
And each was signed with the initials, N.C.

It was not yet two, so I had plenty of time. But you will believe that
I didn't loiter on that account. I dashed out of the _loge_--into the
street--down the Boulevard St. Michel--into the Bleu, breathlessly. At
the far end Nina was seated before a marble table, with Madame Chanve
in smiles and tears beside her. I heard a little cry; I felt myself
seized and enveloped for a moment by something like a whirlwind--oh,
but a very pleasant whirlwind, warm and fresh, and fragrant of
violets; I received two vigorous kisses, one on either cheek; and then
I was held off at arm's length, and examined by a pair of laughing
eyes.

And at last a voice--rather a deep voice for a woman's, with just a
crisp edge to it, that might have been called slightly nasal, but was
agreeable and individual--a voice said: 'En voila assez. Come and sit
down.'

She had finished her luncheon, and was taking coffee; and if the whole
truth must be told, I'm afraid she was taking it with a _petit-verre_
and a cigarette. She wore an exceedingly simple black frock, with a
bunch of violets in her breast, and a hat with a sweeping black
feather and a daring brim. Her dark luxurious hair broke into a riot
of fluffy little curls about her forehead, and thence waved richly
away to where it was massed behind; her cheeks glowed with a lovely
colour (thanks, doubtless, to Yorkshire breezes; sweet are the uses of
adversity); her eyes sparkled; her lips curved in a perpetual play of
smiles, letting her delicate little teeth show themselves furtively;
and suddenly I realised that this girl, whom I had never thoug