of beautiful brown eyes, wistful sometimes as a
dog's. One of our nurses was in love with him, but he used to keep out
of her way when he could. He was said not to care for women, and I was a
little flattered that a man so well thought of "at the top" should take
notice of me. When I look back on myself, I seem to have been very young
then!

Dr. Herter used to meet me, as if by accident, when I was off duty, and
we went for long walks, talking French together; I enjoyed that!
Besides, there was nothing the man didn't know. He was a kind of
encyclopaedia of all the great musicians and artists of the world since
the Middle Ages; and was so much older than I, that I didn't think about
his falling in love. I knew I was pretty, and that beauty of all sorts
was a cult with him. I supposed that he liked looking at me--and that
his fancy would end there. But it didn't. There came a dreadful day when
he accused me of encouraging him purposely, of leading him on to believe
that I cared. This was a real shock. I was sorry--sorry! But he said
such horrid things that I was hurt and angry, too. I said horrid things
in my turn. This scene happened in the street. I asked him to leave me,
and he did at once, without looking back. I can see him now, striding
off in the twilight! No wonder the tall black silhouette in the Place
Stanislas looked familiar. But the man is thinner now, and walks with a
slight limp.

The next thing I heard of him after our break was that he'd married
Nurse Norman (the one who was in love with him) and that they'd left
England. Whether he'd married the girl in a rage against me, or because
he was sorry for her (she'd just then fallen into deep disgrace, through
giving a patient the wrong medicine), I didn't know. I can't say I
didn't care, for I often thought of the man and wondered what had become
of him, though I don't remember ever writing about him to you. He was
but indirectly concerned with my life, and maybe it was in the back of
my mind that I might get a scolding from you if I told you the tale.

The moment the name of "Paul Herter" was mentioned in that pleasant
garden at Nancy, the whole episode of those old days at "Bart's" came
back, and I guessed why the tall figure had darted away from Dierdre
O'Farrell as we came in sight. He must have offered to see the girl
safely home, after dressing her wound (probably at some chemist's), and
she had told him about her fellow-travellers. Naturally my name