ht of
save as one might think of one's younger sister, suddenly I realised
that she was a woman, and a radiantly, perhaps even a dangerously
handsome woman. I saw suddenly that she was not merely an attribute,
an aspect, of another, not merely Alfred Childe's daughter; she was a
personage in herself, a personage to be reckoned with.

This sufficiently obvious perception came upon me with such force, and
brought me such emotion, that I dare say for a little while I sat
vacantly staring at her, with an air of preoccupation. Anyhow, all at
once she laughed, and cried out, 'Well, when you get back...?' and,
'Perhaps,' she questioned, 'perhaps you think it polite to go off
wool-gathering like that?' Whereupon I recovered myself with a start,
and laughed too.

'But say that you are surprised, say that you are glad, at least,' she
went on.

Surprised! glad! But what did it mean? What was it all about?

'I couldn't stand it any longer, that's all. I have come home. Oh,
que c'est bon, que c'est bon, que c'est bon!'

'And--England?--Yorkshire?--your people?'

'Don't speak of it. It was a bad dream. It is over. It brings bad luck
to speak of bad dreams. I have forgotten it. I am here--in Paris--at
home. Oh, que c'est bon!' And she smiled blissfully through eyes
filled with tears.

Don't tell me that happiness is an illusion. It is her habit, if you
will, to flee before us and elude us; but sometimes, sometimes we
catch up with her, and can hold her for long moments warm against our
hearts.

'Oh, mon pere! It is enough--to be here, where he lived, where he
worked, where he was happy,' Nina murmured afterwards.

She had arrived the night before; she had taken a room in the Hotel
d'Espagne, in the Rue de Medicis, opposite the Luxembourg Garden. I
was as yet the only member of the old set she had looked up. Of course
I knew where she had gone first--but not to cry--to kiss it--to place
flowers on it. She could not cry--not now. She was too happy, happy,
happy. Oh, to be back in Paris, her home, where she had lived with
him, where every stick and stone was dear to her because of him!

Then, glancing up at the clock, with an abrupt change of key, 'Mais
allons donc, paresseux! You must take me to see the camarades. You
must take me to see Chalks.'

And in the street she put her arm through mine, laughing and saying,
'On nous croira fiances.' She did not walk, she tripped, she all but
danced beside me, chattering joyously i