over the Place du Theatre, over women shaking coloured rags from the
windows, women washing linen by the river; everything that had been wet
was drying, everything that had savoured of tears and age and sadness
was burning up under the sun, and what moisture remained was brighter
than jewels.

"Suppose he never came!"

"Why, then, be ready for that. Very likely he wouldn't come. Very likely
he would think in daylight--' She is not a woman, but an English
Amazon...'" Fanny glanced down at her clothes regretfully. She was
ill-equipped for an assignation.

"At least I might have better gloves," she thought, and walked into a
small shop which advertised men's clothes in German across the window.
She bought yellow washing-leather gloves at twenty-eight francs a pair,
and would have paid a hundred had the salesman insisted.

And now with yellow gloves, silk stockings, shining shoes and a heart
as light as a leaf upon a wind she walked towards the Cathedral.

"He won't come. He won't be there...." She pushed at the east door.

He was under a Madonna, his black and silver hat in his hand, his eyes
critical and pleased as he walked to meet her. They sat down together
on a seat, without speaking. Then, each longing for the other to speak
--"You have come...." he said first. (His face was oval and his hair
was shining.)

"Yes," she nodded, and noticed a peculiar glory in the Cathedral. The