n life; she had never
been properly English--even to look at! And he began considering which of
those windows could be hers under the green sunblinds. How could he word
what he had come to say so that it might pierce the defence of her proud
obstinacy? He threw the fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the
thought: 'I can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it
up and call on her in the late afternoon.' But he still sat on, heard
twelve strike, and then half-past. 'I'll wait till one,' he thought,
'while I'm about it.' But just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat
down again. A woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock, and was
moving away under a fawn-coloured parasol. Irene herself! He waited till
she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. She was
strolling as though she had no particular objective; moving, if he
remembered rightly, toward the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at
least he kept his distance on the far side of the way till she had passed
into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet someone after all? Some
confounded Frenchman--one of those 'Bel Ami' chaps, perhaps, who had
nothing to do but hang about women--for he had read that book with
difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed doggedly
along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when the path
curved. And it came back to him how, long ago, one night in Hyde Park he
had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting
blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Bosinney.
The path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came on her sitting in front of
a small fountain--a little green-bronze Niobe veiled in hair to her
slender hips, gazing at the pool she had wept: He came on her so suddenly
that he was past before he could turn and take off his hat. She did not
start up. She had always had great self-command--it was one of the
things he most admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against
her, because he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. Had
she realised that he was following? Her self-possession made him angry;
and, disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful
little Niobe, and said:

"That's rather a good thing."

He could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her composure.

"I didn't want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?"

"Yes."

"A little lonely." As he spoke, a lad