LOUISA PALLANT

HENRY JAMES



I

Never say you know the last words about any human heart! I was once
treated to a revelation which startled and touched me in the nature of a
person with whom I had been acquainted--well, as I supposed--for years,
whose character I had had good reasons, heaven knows, to appreciate and
in regard to whom I flattered myself I had nothing more to learn.

It was on the terrace of the Kursaal at Homburg, nearly ten years ago,
one beautiful night toward the end of July. I had come to the place that
day from Frankfort, with vague intentions, and was mainly occupied in
waiting for my young nephew, the only son of my sister, who had been
entrusted to my care by a very fond mother for the summer--I was
expected to show him Europe, only the very best of it--and was on his
way from Paris to join me. The excellent band discoursed music not too
abstruse, while the air was filled besides with the murmur of different
languages, the smoke of many cigars, the creak on the gravel of the
gardens of strolling shoes and the thick tinkle of beer-glasses. There
were a hundred people walking about, there were some in clusters at
little tables and many on benches and rows of chairs, watching the
others as if they had paid for the privilege and were rather
disappointed. I was among these last; I sat by myself, smoking my cigar
and thinking of nothing very particular while families and couples
passed and repassed me.