at the windows, nobody stirring on the gravel of the drive; not
a voice, not a whisper, not a footfall. And yet, after a long,
long look, he turned away almost happy, his heart filled with
satisfaction.

He waited under the old walnut trees of the avenue till the windows
lighted up one by one in the darkness, and then retraced his
steps. As he passed the railway station, to which people were
hurrying to catch an incoming train, he saw amid the confusion
a tall woman in a mantilla kiss a young girl who was taking her
leave. The pale face under the mantilla, the long, delicate hands,
that seemed ungloved out of a voluptuous caprice, how well he
knew them! How he saw the woman from head to foot in a flash!
His knees bent under him. He felt an exquisite languor, as if
he would die there and then! No, he never believed she was so
beautiful, so beyond price! And he had thought to forget her!
He had imagined he could live without her, as if she did not
sum up in herself the world and life and everything!

She turned into the lane leading to her house, walking at a smart
pace, with her dress trailing and catching on the brambles, from
which with a backward sweep of the hand and a rough pull she
would twitch it clear.

Jean followed her, pushing his way deliberately through the same
bramble bushes and exulting to feel the thorns scratch and tear
his flesh.

She stopped at the gate, and Jean saw her profile, in its purity
and dignity, clearly defined in the pale moonlight. She was a