the streets at first were surprisingly
thronged, the roadway sometimes blocked with a heavy traffic of carts
all converging to the Halles. But soon they were passing through quieter
neighbourhoods, through stately avenues lined by vast hotels with
far-stretching lines of shuttered windows. Wyndham surrendered himself
to the charm of steeping himself again in this atmosphere, drawing freer
breaths, subtly attuned to it, aided by golden memories.

The brisk buxom matron, who was already at her post in the hotel bureau,
recognised her old client, and welcomed him with a cry of joy. Her face
beamed with pleasure as he shook hands with her, and he had a joyous
sense of home-coming!

"But one has not seen you for eternities," she exclaimed. "We had
thought that you had quite abandoned us!"

"The loss has been more mine than yours, madame," he returned. "I should
have announced my arrival beforehand, if I had not left London so
suddenly."

Presently he took possession of his room, and, as it was not yet seven,
he sank into an arm-chair and dozed for a time. At nine he awoke,
washed, changed into more civilised clothes, then strolled out
cheerfully on to the Boulevards, and had his morning coffee at a little
table in the open, with a budget of French papers to look through, and
the spectacle of the passing world in the sunshine for his
entertainment.

He sat on for a long while in leisurely enjoyment, then proceeded to
stroll by way of the Place de la Concorde (which looked vaster and
finer than it had ever appeared to him) round to the great Palace of Art
off the Champs Elysees. It had sprung up during these years of his
absence, and he wandered round it delightedly, examining all the
facades, familiarising himself with all the points of view.

At last he entered through the nearest turnstile and went straight to
see how Lady Betty's portrait was hung.

* * * * *

But Wyndham did not linger in Paris as he had intended. He had found
Lady Betty beautifully placed on the line, and had returned to her
daily, not to gaze at the painting, but at the features of the woman he
loved. And then there surged in him a fever of impatience. He had not
the least hope of finding her here in Paris--he took it for granted she
had long since seen the Salon, and he had the strangely settled
belief--he did not know why--that she was not then in France at all. And
somehow he was unable to conceive of himself