Yes, here was the old town, with its red roofs, its quaint
architecture, its crowded, narrow, picturesque streets. But this time
they seemed almost deserted, and the whole effect of the place was
bleak and dreary. The leaves had dropped from the trees, the flowers
had faded, the vines that covered the cottage walls were brown and
bare. He was pleasantly conscious of the warmth of a sable-lined coat
he had brought from Russia two years before. He thrust his gloved
hands deep into its capacious pockets and walked on, his eyes turning
to right and left as he went. At intervals he saw a bulky masculine
figure, queerly dressed, turn a corner or enter a house. Once or twice
one came his way and passed him, but no one looked at him or spoke.
For a moment Varick was tempted to knock at one of the inhospitably
closed doors and ask for information and directions, but something--he
did not know what--restrained him.

When she appeared it was as suddenly as she had come before, with no
warning, no approach. She was at his elbow--a bewitching thing of furs
and feminine beauty, French millinery and cordiality. She held out her
small hand with a fine _camaraderie_.

"Is it not nice?" she asked at once. "I was afraid I should arrive
first and have to wait alone. I would not have liked that."

He held her hand close, looking down at her from his great height, his
gray eyes shining into hers.

"Then you knew--you were coming?" he asked, slowly.

"Not until the moment before I came. But when I saw the curtain fall--