of
acknowledged fact, and from five to seven had taken refuge in the fifth
floor of the rue de la Pompe where Julio had an artist's studio. The
curtains well drawn over the double glass windows, the cosy hearth-fire
sending forth its ruddy flame as the only light of the room, the
monotonous song of the samovar bubbling near the cups of tea--all
the seclusion of life isolated by an idolizing love--had dulled their
perceptions to the fact that the afternoons were growing longer, that
outside the sun was shining later and later into the pearl-covered
depths of the clouds, and that a timid and pallid Spring was beginning
to show its green finger tips in the buds of the branches suffering the
last nips of Winter--that wild, black boar who so often turned on his
tracks.

Then Julio had made his trip to Buenos Aires, encountering in the other
hemisphere the last smile of Autumn and the first icy winds from the
pampas. And just as his mind was becoming reconciled to the fact that
for him Winter was an eternal season--since it always came to meet
him in his change of domicile from one extreme of the planet to the
other--lo, Summer was unexpectedly confronting him in this dreary
garden!

A swarm of children was racing and screaming through the short avenues
around the monument. On entering the place, the first thing that Julio
encountered was a hoop which came rolling toward his legs, trundled by
a childish hand. Then he stumbled over a ball. Around the chestnut
trees was gathering the usual warm-weather crowd, seeking the blue shade
perforated with points of light. Many nurse-maids from the neighboring
houses were working and chattering here, following with indifferent
glances the rough games of the children confided to their care. Near
them were the men who had brought their papers down into the garden
under the impression that they could read them in the midst of peaceful
groves. All of the benches were full. A few women were occupying camp
stools with that feeling of superiority which ownership always confers.
The iron chairs, "pay-seats," were serving as resting places for
various suburban dames, loaded down with packages, who were waiting for
straggling members of their families in order to take the train in the
Gare Saint Lazare. . . .

And Julio, in his special delivery letter, had proposed meeting in this
place, supposing that it would be as little frequented as in former
times. She, too, with the same thoughtlessnes