place," said Gordon. "I have a good deal to say; I have a good deal to
ask you."

Bernard felt the familiar pressure of his friend's hand, as it rested on
his arm, and it seemed to him never to have lain there with so heavy a
weight. It held him fast--it held him to account; it seemed a physical
symbol of responsibility. Bernard was not re-assured by hearing that
Gordon had a great deal to say, and he expected a sudden explosion of
bitterness on the subject of Blanche's irremediable triviality. The
afternoon was a lovely one--the day was a perfect example of the
mellowest mood of autumn. The air was warm and filled with a golden
haze, which seemed to hang about the bare Parisian trees, as if with a
tender impulse to drape their nakedness. A fine day in Paris brings
out a wonderfully bright and appreciative multitude of strollers and
loungers, and the liberal spaces of the Champs Elysees were on this
occasion filled with those placid votaries of inexpensive entertainment
who abound in the French capital. The benches and chairs on the edge of
the great avenue exhibited a dense fraternity of gazers, and up and down
the broad walk passed the slow-moving and easily pleased pedestrians.
Gordon, in spite of his announcement that he had a good deal to say,
confined himself at first to superficial allusions, and Bernard after a
while had the satisfaction of perceiving that he was not likely, for the
moment, to strike the note of conjugal discord. He appeared, indeed, to
feel no desire to speak of Blanche in any manner whatever. He fell into
the humor of the hour and the scene, looked at the crowd, talked about
trifles. He remarked that Paris was a wonderful place after all, and
that a little glimpse of the Parisian picture was a capital thing as a
change; said he was very glad they had come, and that for his part he
was willing to stay three months.