Journalist, who had travelled into almost as many queer places as
Richard Burton, seen more wars, and followed more callings. There was
the Sculptor, the fame of whose greater father had almost paralyzed a
pair of good modeller's hands. There was the Critic, whose friends
believed that in him the world had lost a great romancer, but whom a
combination of hunger and laziness, and a proneness to think that
nothing not genius was worth while, had condemned to be a mere
breadwinner, but a breadwinner who squeezed a lot out of life, and who
fervently believed that in his next incarnation he would really be
"it." Then there was "Me," and of the other two women--one was a
Trained Nurse, and the other a Divorcée, and--well, none of us really
knew just what she had become, but we knew that she was very rich, and
very handsome, and had a leaning toward some sort of new religion. As
for the Youngster--he was the son of an old chum of the Doctor--his
ward, in fact--and his hobby was flying.

Our reunion, after so many years, was a rather pretty story.

In the summer of 1913, the Doctor and the Divorcée, who had lost sight
of one another for twenty years, met by chance in Paris. Her
ex-husband had been a college friend of the Doctor. They saw a great
deal of one another in the lazy way that people who really love
France, and are done sightseeing, can do.

One day it occurred to them to take a day's trip into the country, as
unattached people now and then can do. They might have gone out in a
car--but they chose the railroad, with a walk at the end--on the
principle that no one can know and love a country who does not press
its earth beneath his feet,--the Doctor would probably have said, "lay
his head upon its bosom." By an accident--they missed a train--they