Paul had met Mrs. Sydney Bamborough on one or two occasions, and had
been interested in her. From the first he had come under the influence
of her beauty. But she was then a married woman. He met her again toward
the end of the terrible winter to which reference has been made, and
found that a mere acquaintanceship had in the meantime developed into
friendship. He could not have told when and where the great social
barrier had been surmounted and left behind. He only knew in an
indefinite way that some such change had taken place, as all such
changes do, not in intercourse, but in the intervals of absence. It is a
singular fact that we do not make our friends when they are near. The
seed of friendship and love alike is soon sown, and the best is that
which germinates in absence.

That friendship had rapidly developed into something else Paul became
aware early in the season; and, as we have seen from his conversation,
Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, innocent and guileless as she was, might with
all modesty have divined the state of his feelings had she been less
overshadowed by her widow's weeds.

She apparently had no such suspicion, for she asked Paul in all good
faith to call the next day and tell her all about Russia--"dear Russia."

"My cousin Maggie," she added, "is staying with me. She is a dear girl.
I am sure you will like her."

Paul accepted with alacrity, but reserved to himself the option of
hating Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's cousin Maggie, merely because that young
lady existed and happened to be staying in Upper Brook Street.