t the corner of the main street and
the road leading down to the Villa, playing with Narcisse and longing
for something to happen. You see it is not given every day to an
impressionable youngster, his brain stuffed with poetry, pictures, and
such like delusive visionary things, to tumble head first into the
romance of the actual world. For the moment the romance was at a
standstill. I longed for a further chapter. It was a pity, I reflected,
that we did not live in Merovingian times. Then Paragot and I could have
lain in wait with our horses--everyone had horses in knightly days--and
when Joanna came near, we should have killed the beaky-nosed man, and
Paragot would have swung her on his saddlebow and we should have
galloped away to his castle in the next kingdom, where Paragot, and
Joanna and I, with Blanquette to be tirewoman to our princess, would
have lived happy ever after. What I expected to get for myself, heaven
knows: it did not strike me that perennial contemplation of another's
bliss might wear out the stoutest altruism.

Then suddenly out of the door of the Villa came two ladies, one of whom
I recognised as Joanna and the other as the young girl of the luncheon
party. The facade of the villa stretches across the road and is about a
hundred yards from the corner. I saw Paragot stand rigid, and make no
sign of recognition as she passed him by, with her head up, like a proud
queen. I felt an odd pain at my heart. Why was she so cruel? Her eyes
were of the blue of glaciers, but all the rest of her face had seemed
tender and kind. I was aware, in a general way, that radiantly attired
ladies do not shake hands with ragamuffins in public places, but you
must please to remember that I no more considered Paragot a ragamuffin
than I thought Blanquette the equal of Joanna. Paragot to me was the
peer of kings.

I turned away sorrowing and sauntered up the little street that leads to
the Etablissement des Bains. I was disappointed in Joanna and did not
want to see her again. She should be punished for her cruelty. I sat
down on one of the benches on the Place, and looking at the Mairie clock
stolidly thought of supper. They made famous onion soup at the little
auberge where we lodged, and Paragot, himself a connoisseur, had
pronounced their _tripes a la mode de Caen_ superior to anything that
Mrs. Housekeeper had executed for the Lotus Club. Besides I was getting
hungry. With youth a full heart rarely compensates an emp