I bent myself forward and lifted the parasol, though not my eyes
I could not have looked up into the face above me to be
Caesar! Two hands came down into the circle of my observation;
one of these was that belonging to the trousers, thin, long, and
white; the other was the grey-gloved hand of the lady, and never
had I seen such a hand--the hand of an angel in a suede glove,
as the grey skirt was the mantle of a saint made by Doucet. I
speak of saints and angels; and to the large world these may
sound like cold words.--It is only in Italy where some people
are found to adore them still.

I lifted the parasol toward that glove as I would have moved to
set a candle on an altar. Then, at a thought, I placed it not in
the glove, but in the thin hand of the gentleman. At the same
time the voice of the lady spoke to me--I was to have the joy
of remembering that this voice had spoken four words to me.

"Je vous remercie, monsieur," it said.

"Pas de quoi!" I murmured.

The American trousers in a loud tone made reference in the idiom
to my miserable head: "Did you ever see anything to beat it?"

The beautiful voice answered, and by the gentleness of her
sorrow for me I knew she had no thought that I might understand.
"Come away. It is too pitiful!"

Then the grey skirt and the little round-toed shoes beneath it