end back to his relatives all but a small income from his
estate, enough for her to live on during her lifetime. There had been
some trouble about this matter; Mrs. Grainger, in particular, had
surprised her in making objections, and had finally written a letter
which Honora received with a feeling akin to gratitude. Whether her own
action had softened this lady's feelings, she never understood; she
had cherished the letter for its unexpectedly charitable expressions.
Chiltern's family had at last agreed to accept the estate on the
condition that the income mentioned should be tripled. And to this
Honora had consented. Money had less value than ever in her eyes.

She lived here in Paris in what may be called a certain peace, made no
demands upon the world, and had no expectations from it. She was now in
half mourning, and intended to remain so. Her isolation was of her own
choice, if a stronger expression be not used. She was by no means an
enforced outcast. And she was even aware that a certain sympathy for her
had grown up amongst her former friends which had spread to the colony
of her compatriots in Paris; in whose numbers there were some, by no
means unrecognized, who had defied the conventions more than she. Hugh
Chiltern's reputation, and the general knowledge of his career, had no
doubt aided to increase this sympathy, but the dignity of her conduct
since his death was at the foundation of it. Sometimes, on her walks
and drives, she saw people bowing to her, and recognized friends or
acquaintances of what seemed to her like a former existence.

Such had been her life in Paris until a certain day in early September,
a month before this chapter opens. It was afternoon, and she was sitting
in the balcony cutting a volume of memoirs when she heard the rattle of
a cab on the cobbles below, and peered curiously over the edge of the
railing. Although still half a block away, the national characteristics
of the passenger were sufficiently apparent. He was an American--of that
she was sure. And many Americans did not stray into that quarter. The
length of his legs, for one thing, betrayed him: he found the seat of
the fiacre too low, and had crossed one knee over the other. Other
and less easily definable attributes he did not lack. And as he leaned
against the faded blue cushions regarding with interest the buildings
he passed, he seemed, like an ambassador, to convert the cab in which he
rode into United States territo