so impatient? Why was he not willing to let their friendship go on as it
had been all these months? Why must he ask this inconceivable question and
insist on having an answer? His wife! Her cheeks flamed at the word and her
heart throbbed wildly. His wife! How wonderful that he should have chosen
her, so poor and obscure, for such an honor, the highest he could pay a
woman! Whatever happened she would at least have this beautiful memory to
comfort her loneliness and sorrow.

A descending step on the tower stairs broke in upon her meditations, and
she rose quickly from her knees. The sacristan had finished his rounds and
was coming to close the outer doors. It was time for her to go. And, with a
glance at her hair in a little glass and a touch to her hat, she went out
into the garden back of Notre-Dame, where she knew her lover would be
waiting. There he was, strolling along the graveled walk near the fountain,
switching his cane impatiently. He had not seen her yet, and she stood
still, looking at him fondly, dreading what was to come, yet longing to
hear the sound of his voice. How handsome he was! What a nice gray suit,
and--then Kittredge turned.

"Ah, at last!" he exclaimed, springing toward her with a mirthful, boyish
smile. His face was ruddy and clean shaven, the twinkling eyes and humorous
lines about the mouth suggesting some joke or drollery always ready on his
lips. Yet his was a frank, manly face, easily likable. He was a man of
twenty-seven, slender of build, but carrying himself well. In dress he had
the quiet good taste that some men are born with, besides a willingness to
take pains about shirts, boots, and cravats--in short, he looked like a
well-groomed Englishman. Unlike the average Englishman, however, he spoke
almost perfect French, owing to the fact that his American father had
married into one of the old Creole families of New Orleans.