He caught the boat-train from Charing Cross. It was a sparkling morning in the last week of June, the season of hay-making and roses. He had received his instructions in a brief note. It bore no address; the postmark showed that it had been dispatched from Rouen. When the train was in motion he studied it afresh; he could have repeated it line for line from memory:

My dear,

Come Saturday. I’ll meet you in Paris at the Gare du Nord 445. Bring only hand-baggage—evening dress not necessary.

Here are my terms. No kissing, no love-making, nothing like that till I give permission. We’re just two friends who have met by accident and have made up our minds to travel together. Don’t join me, if you can’t live up to the contract.

Many thoughts,

Yours affectionately,

The Princess.

He had stared at the letter so long that they were panting through the hop-fields of Kent by the time he put it back in his pocket. A breeze silvered the backs of leaves, making them tremulous. The spires of Canterbury floated up.

He knew the way she traveled, with mountainous trunks and more gowns than she could wear. Why had she been so explicit that he should bring only hand-baggage? Was it because their time together was to be short, or because she knew that at the last minute she might turn coward? She had left herself another loop-hole: she had sent him no address. Even if she were there to meet him, he might miss her on the crowded platform. And if he did—— His fears lest he might miss her battled with his scruples.

Dover and the flash of the sea! Scruples dwindled in importance; the goal of his anticipations grew nearer.

On the boat there was a bridal couple. He watched them, trying to discover with how much discretion honeymoon people were supposed to act.

On French soil the gayety of his adventure caught him. One day they would repeat it; she would travel with him openly from London, and it wouldn’t be an experiment From Calais he would have liked to send a telegram—but to where? She was still elusive. The train was delayed in starting. He fumed and fretted; if it arrived late he might lose her. For the last hour, as he was nearing Paris, he sat with his watch in his hand.

Before they were at a standstill, he had leapt to the platform, glancing this way and that. He had begun to despair, when a slight figure in a muslin dress emerged from the crowd. He stared hard at the simplicity of her appearance, trying to fathom its meaning.

Disguising her emotion with mockery, she caught him by both hands. “What luck! I’ve been so lonely. Fancy meeting you here!” She laughed at him slyly through her lashes. She looked at his suit-case. “That all? Good. I wondered if you’d take me at my word.”

She moved round to the side on which he carried it, so that they had to walk a little apart In the courtyard, from among the gesticulating cochers, he selected a fiacre. As he helped her in he asked, “Where are we staying?”

“In the Rue St. Honor茅 at The Oxford and Cambridge; close by there are heaps of other hotels. You can easily find a good one.”

Again she surprised him; a fashionable hotel in the Place Vend么me was what he had expected.

They jingled off down sunlit boulevards. On tree-shadowed pavements tables were arranged in rows before caf茅s. Great buses lumbered by, drawn by stallions. Every sight and sound was noticeable and exciting. It was a world at whose meaning they could only guess; between it and themselves rose the barrier of language. Already the foreignness of their surroundings was forcing them together. They both felt it—felt it gladly; yet they sat restrained and awkward. None of their former unconventions gave them the least clews as to how they should act.

She turned inquisitive eyes on him. “Quite overcome, aren’t you? You didn’t expect to find such a modest little girl.—Tell me, Meester Deek, do you like the way I’m dressed?”

“Better than ever. But why——”

She clapped her hands. “For you. I’ll tell you later.”

She looked away as if she feared she had encouraged him too much. Again the silence settled down.

He watched her: the slope of her throat, the wistful drooping of her face, the folded patience of her hands.

“When does a honeymoon like ours commence?” he whispered.

She shrugged her shoulders and became interested in the traffic.

“Well, then if you won’t tell me that, answer me this question. How long does it last?”

She pursed her mouth and began to do a sum on her fingers. When she had counted up to ten, she peeped at him from under her broad-brimmed hat. “Until it ends.” Then, patting his hand quickly, “But it’s only just started. Don’t let’s think about the end—— Here, this hotel will do. Dig the cocher in the back. I’ll sit in the fiacre till you return; then there’ll be no explanations.”

He took the first room that was offered him, and regained his place beside her. All the time he had been gone, he had been haunted by the dread that she might drive off without him.

“What next?”

She smiled. “The old New York question. Anywhere—— I don’t care.” She slipped her arm into his and then withdrew it. “It is fun to be alone with you.”

He told the man to drive them through the Tuileries and over the river to the Luxembourg Gardens.

He touched her. She frowned. “Not here. It’s too full of Americans. We might be recognized.” Huddling herself into her corner, she tried to look as if he were not there.

As they came out on the quays, the river blazed golden, shining flash upon flash beneath its intercepting bridges. The sun was setting, gilding domes and spires. The sky was plumed and saffron with the smoke of clouds. Bareheaded work-girls were boarding trams; mischievous-eyed artisans in blue blouses jostled them. Eyes flung back glances. Chatter and a sense of release were in the air. The heart of Paris began to expand with the ecstasy of youth and passion. Her hand slipped from her lap and rested on the cushion. His covered it; by unspoken consent they closed up the space between them.

“Are you giving me permission?”

“Not exactly. Can you guess why I planned this? I—I wanted to be fair.”

“The strangest reason!” He laughed softly.

“But I did.” She spoke with pouting emphasis. “I’ve given you an awful lot of worry.”

“Don’t know about that. If you have, it’s been worth it.”

“Has it?” She shook her head doubtfully. “It might have been worth it, if——” A slow smile crept about her mouth. “Whatever happens, you’ll have had your honeymoon. People say it’s the best part of marriage.”

He didn’t know what she meant by a honeymoon. It wasn’t much like a honeymoon at present—it wasn’t so very different from the ride to Long Beach. He dared not question. Without warning, in the quick shifting of her moods, she might send him packing back to London.

They were crossing the Pont Neuf; her attention was held by a line of barges. When they had reached the farther bank, he reminded her, “You were going to tell me——”

He glanced at her dress. “Was it really for me that you did it?”

She nodded. “For you. I’m so artificial; I’m not ashamed of it. But until I saw you in Eden Row, I didn’t realize how different I am. In New York—well, I was in the majority. It was you who felt strange there. But in Eden Row I saw my father. He’s like you and—and it came over me that perhaps I’m not as nice as I fancy—not as much to be envied. There may even be something in what Mrs. Sheerug says.”

“But you are nice.” His voice was hot in her defense. “I can’t make out why you’re always running yourself down.”

She thought for a moment, brushing him with her shoulder. “Because I can stand it, and to hear you defend me, perhaps.—But it was for you that I bought this dress, Mees-ter Deek. I tried to think how you’d like me to look if—if we were always going to be together. And so I’ve given up my beauty-patch. And I won’t smoke a single cigarette unless you ask me. I’m going to live in your kind of a world and,” she bit her lip, inviting his pity, “and I’m going to travel without trunks, and I’ll try not to be an expense. I think I’m splendid.”

They drew up at the Luxembourg Gardens and dismissed the fiacre.

A band was playing. The splash of fountains and fluttering of pigeons mingled with the music. Seen from a distance, the statues of dryads and athletes seemed to stoop from their pedestals and to move with the promenading crowd. They watched the eager types by which they were surrounded: artists’ models, work-girls, cocottes; tired-eyed, long-haired, Daudetesque young men; Zouaves, chasseurs, Svengalis—they were people of a fiction world. Some walked in pairs—others solitary. Here two lovers embraced unabashed. There they met for the first time, and made the moment an eternity. Romance, the brevity of life, the warning against foolish caution were in the air. For all these people there was only one quest.

They had been walking separately, divided by shyness. In passing, a grisette swept against him, and glanced into his eyes in friendly fashion.

“Here, I won’t have that.” Desire spoke with a hint of jealousy. She drew nearer so that their shoulders were touching. “Nobody’ll know us. Don’t let’s be misers. I’ll take your arm,” she whispered.

“The second time you’ve done it.”

“When was the first?”

“That night at the Knickerbocker after we’d quarreled and I’d given you the bracelet.”

She smiled in amused contentment “How you do keep count!”

The band had ceased playing; only the music of the fountains was heard. Shadows beneath trees deepened. Constellations of street-lamps lengthened. Twilight came tiptoeing softly, like a young-faced woman with silver hair.

She hung upon his arm more heavily. “Oh, it’s good to be alone with you! You don’t mind if I don’t talk? One can talk with anybody.” And, a little later, “Meester Deek, I feel so safe alone with you.”

When they were back in thoroughfares, “Where shall we dine?” he asked her.

“In your world,” she said. “No, don’t let’s drive. This isn’t New York. We’d miss all the adventure. I’d rather walk now.”

After wandering the Boule Michel, losing their way half-a-dozen times and making inquiries in their guide-book French, they found the Caf茅 d’Harcourt. Its walls were decorated with student-drawings by artists long since famous. At a table in the open they seated themselves. Romance was all about them. It danced in the eyes of men and girls. Through the orange-tinted dusk it lisped along the pavement It winked at them through the blinds of pyramided houses.

She bent towards him. “You’ve become very respectful—not at all the Meester Deek that you were—more like a little boy on his best behavior.”

He rested his chin in his hand. “Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Your contract. I’m here on approval.”

“Let’s forget it,” she said. “I’m learning. I’ve learnt so much about life since we met.”

Through the meal she amused him by speaking in broken English and misunderstanding whatever he said. When it was ended he offered her a cigarette. “No. You’re only trying to be polite, and tempting me.”

They drove across the river and up the Champs-Elys茅es to a theatre where they had seen Polaire announced. The performance had hardly commenced, when she tugged at his arm. “Meester Deek, it’s summer outside. We’ve spent so much time in seeing things and people. I want to talk.” From under the shadow of trees he hailed a fiacre. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” When he had taken his place at her side, “You may put your arm about me,” she murmured drowsily.

They lay back gazing up at the star-strewn sky. Their rubber-tires on the asphalt made hardly any sound. They seemed disembodied, drifting through a pageant of dreams. The summer air blew softly on their faces; sometimes it bore with it the breath of flowers. The night world of Paris went flashing by, swift in its pursuit of pleasure. They scarcely noticed it; it was something unreal that they had left.

“What’s going on in your mind?”

She didn’t stir. She hung listless in his embrace. “I was thinking of growing old—growing old with nobody to care.—You care now; I know that But if I let you go, in five years’ time you’d——” He felt the shrug she gave her shoulders. “Mother’s the only friend I have. You might be the second if—— But mothers are more patient; they’re always waiting for you when you come back.”

“And I shall be always waiting. Haven’t I always told you that?”

“You’ve told me.” Then, in an altered tone, “Did you ever think you knew what happened in California?”

“I guessed.”

She freed herself and sat erect. “There was a man.” She waited, and when he remained silent, “You’d taught me to like to be loved. I didn’t notice it while you were with me, but I missed it terribly after you’d left. I used to cry. And then, out there—after he’d kissed me, I lay awake all night and shivered. I wanted to wash away the touch of his mouth. It was my fault; I’d given him chances and tried to fascinate him. I’d been so stingy with you—that made it worse; and he was a man for whom I didn’t care. I felt I couldn’t write. And it was when I was feeling’ so unhappy that your letter arrived.—Can’t you understand how a girl may like to flirt and yet not be bad?—I’m not saying that I love you, Meester Deek—perhaps I haven’t got it in me to love; only—only that of all men in the world, I like to be loved by you the best.”

He drew her closer to his side. “You dear kiddy.”

“You forgive me?”

It was late when they parted at the door of her hotel.

“I’ll try to be up early,” she promised. “We might even breakfast together. It’s the only meal we haven’t shared.”

He turned back to the streets. Passing shrouded churches, he came to the fire-crowned hill of Montmartre. He wandered on, not greatly caring where he went. From one of the bridges, when the vagueness of dawn was in the sky, he found himself gazing down at the black despair of the silent-flowing river. Wherever he had been, love that could be purchased had smiled into his eyes. The old fear took possession of him: he was different from other men. Why couldn’t he rouse her? Was it his fault—or because there was nothing to arouse?

She wore a troubled look when he met her next morning.

“Shall we breakfast here or at my hotel?”

“At yours,” she said sharply.

When she spoke like that she created the effect of being more distant than an utter stranger. It wasn’t until some minutes later, when they were seated at table, that he addressed her.

“There’s something that I want to say; I may as well say it now. When a man’s in love with a girl and she doesn’t care for him particularly, she has him at an ungenerous disadvantage: she can make a fool of him any minute she chooses. I don’t think it’s quite sporting of her to do it.”

Her graciousness came back. “But I do care for you particularly. Poor you! Did I speak crossly? Here’s why: we’ve got to leave Paris. There’s a man at my hotel who knows me. I wouldn’t have him see us together for the world.”

“So that was all? I was afraid I’d done something to offend.”

She made eyes at him above her cup of coffee. “You’re all right, Meester Deek. You don’t need to get nervous.—But where’ll we go for our honeymoon?”

“I’m waiting for it to commence.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re just the same as you always were.”

“But where’ll we go?” she repeated. “We’ve got all the world to choose from.”

He told the waiter to bring a Cook’s Time Table. Turning to the index, he began to read out the names alphabetically. “Aden?”

“Too hot,” she said.

“Algiers?”

“Same reason, and fleas as well.”

“Athens?”

“Too informing, and we don’t want any scandals—I’d be sure to meet a boy who shone my shoes in New York.—Here, give me the old book.—What about Avignon? We can start this evening and get there to-morrow.”

Through the gayety of the sabbath morning they made their way to Cook’s. While purchasing their tickets they almost came to words. He insisted that she would need a berth for the journey; she insisted that she wouldn’t.

“But you’re not used to sitting up all night. You’ll be good for nothing next morning. Do be reasonable.”

“I’m not used to a good many of the things we’re doing. I’m trying to save you expense. And I don’t think it’s at all nice of you to lose your temper.”

“I didn’t,” he protested.

“A matter of opinion,” she said.

When he had bought a guide-book on Provence, they walked out into the sunlight in silence. They reached the Pont de la Concorde; neither of them had uttered a word. With a gap of about a foot between them, they leant against the parapet, watching steamers puff in to the landing to take aboard the holiday crowd. She kept her face turned away from him, with her chin held at a haughty angle. In an attempt to pave the way to conversation, he commenced to read about Avignon in his guide-book.

Suddenly she snatched it from him and tossed it into the river. He watched it fall; then stared at her quietly. Like a naughty child, appalled by her own impishness, she returned his stare.

“Two francs fifty banged for nothing!” She closed up the distance between them, snuggling against him like a puppy asking his forgiveness.

“Meester Deek, you can be provoking. I got up this morning intending to be so fascinating. Everything goes wrong.—And as for that berth,” she made her voice small and repentant, “I was only trying to be sweet to you.”

“I, too, was trying to be decent.” He covered her hand. “How is it? I counted so much on this—this experiment, or whatever you call it. We’re not getting on very well.”

“We’re not.” She lifted her face sadly. In an instant the cloud vanished. The gray seas in her eyes splashed over with merriment. “It’ll be all right when we get out of Paris. You see if it isn’t! Quite soon now my niceness will commence.”

“Then let’s get out now.”

They ran down to the landing and caught a steamer setting out for S猫vres. From S猫vres they took a tram to Versailles. It was late in the afternoon when they got back to Paris with scarcely sufficient time to dine and pack.

All day he had been wondering whether, in her opinion, her niceness had commenced. They had enjoyed themselves. She had taken his arm. She had treated him as though she claimed him. But they had broken no new ground. He felt increasingly that the old familiarities had lost their meaning while the new familiarities were withheld. She was still passionless. She allowed and she incited, but she never responded. When they had arrived at the farthest point that they had reached in their New York experience, she either halted or turned back. She played at a thing which to him was as earnest as life and death. He had once found a dedication which read about as follows: “To the woman with the dead soul and the beautiful white body.” There were times when the words seemed to have been written for her.

At the station he searched in vain for an empty carriage. At last he had to enter one which was already occupied. Their companion was a French naval officer, who had a slight acquaintance with English, of which he was exceedingly proud. He informed them that he was going to Marseilles to join his ship; since Marseilles was several hours beyond Avignon, all hope that they would have any privacy was at an end. They had been in crowds and public places ever since they had met; now this stranger insisted on joining in their conversation. He addressed himself almost exclusively to Desire; under the flattering battery of his attentions she grew animated. Finding himself excluded, Teddy looked out of the window at the pollarded trees and flying country. He felt like the dull and superseded husband of a Guy de Maupassant story.

Night fell. When it was time to hood the lamp, the stranger still kept them separate by his gallantry in inviting her to change comers with him, that she might steady herself while she slept by slipping her arms through the loops which he had hung from the baggage-rack.

In the darkness Teddy drowsed occasionally; but he never entirely lost consciousness. With tantalization his love grew furious. It was tinged with hatred now. He glanced across at the quiet girl with the shadows lying deep beneath her lashes. Her eyes were always shuttered; every time he hoped that he might surprise her watching him. The only person he surprised was the naval officer who feigned sleep the moment he knew he was observed. Did she really feel far more than she expressed? She gave him few proofs of it.

She had removed her hat for comfort. Once a fire-fly blew in at the window and settled in her hair. It wandered across her face, lighting up her brows, her lips—each memorized perfection. She raised her hand and brushed it aside. It flew back into the night, leaving behind it a trail of phosphorescence. His need of her was growing cruel.

He gave up his attempt at sleeping. Going out into the corridor, he opened a window and smoked a cigarette. Dawn was breaking. As the light flared and spread, he found that they were traveling a mountainous country. White towns, more Italian than French, gleamed on the crests of sun-baked hills. Roads were white. Rivers looked white. The sky was blue as a sapphire, and smooth as a silken curtain. The fragrance of roses hung in the air. Above the roar of the engine he could hear the cicalas chirping.

At six-thirty, as the train panted into Avignon, she awoke. “Hulloa! Are we there?”

She was so excited that in stepping from the carriage she would have left her hat behind if the naval officer hadn’t reminded her.

They drove through the town to the tinkling of water flowing down the gutters. The streets were narrow, with grated medieval houses rising gray and fortress-like on either side. Great two-wheeled wagons were coming in from the country; their drivers ran beside them, cracking their whips and uttering hoarse cries. All the way she chattered, catching at his lapels and sleeves to attract his attention. She was full of high spirits as a child. She kept repeating scraps of information which she had gathered from the naval officer. “He was quite a gentleman,” she said. And then, when she received no answer, “Didn’t you think that he was very kind?”

In the centre of the town they alighted in a wide square, the Place de la Republique, tree-shadowed, sun-swept, surrounded by public buildings and crooked houses. Carrying their bags, they sat themselves down at a table beneath an awning, and ordered rolls and chocolate.

Frowning over them, a little to their left, was a huge precipice of architecture, rising tower upon tower, embattled against the burning sky. Desire began to retail to him the information she had picked up in the train: how it was the palace of the popes, built by them in the fourteenth century while they were in exile. The source of her knowledge made it distasteful to him. He had difficulty in concealing his irritation. He felt as if he had sand at the back of his eyes. His gaze wandered from her to the women going back and forth through the sunlight, balancing loads on their heads and fetching long loaves of bread from the bakers. Hauntingly at intervals he heard a flute-like music; it was a tune commencing, which at the end of five notes fell silent. A wild-looking herdsman entered the square, followed by twelve black goats. He stood Pan-like and played; advanced a few steps; raised his pipe to his lips and played again. A woman approached him; he called to one of the goats, and squatting on his heels, drew the milk into the woman’s bowl. Through a tunnel leading out of the square, he vanished. Like faery music, his five notes grew fainter, to the accompaniment of sabots clapping across the pavement.

All the while that Desire had been talking, handing on what the stranger had told her about Avignon, he had watched the soul of Avignon wander by, dreamy-eyed and sculptured by the sunlight.

She fell silent. Pushing back her chair, she frowned at him. “I’m doing my best.—I don’t understand you. You’re chilly this morning.”

“Am I?”

“Where’s the good of saying ‘Am I?’ You know you are. What’s the matter? Jealous?”

“Jealous! Hardly.” He stifled a yawn. “I scarcely got a wink of sleep last night. I was keeping an eye on your friend. He was watching you all the time.”

“Then you were jealous.” She leant forward and spoke slowly. “You were rude; you acted like a spoilt child. Why on earth did you go off and glue your nose against the window? You left me to do all the talking.”

Suddenly his anger flamed; he knew that his face had gone set and white. “You didn’t need to talk to him. When are you going to stop playing fast and loose with me? I’ll tell you what it is, Desire: you haven’t any passion.”

He was sorry the moment he had said it. A spark of his resentment caught fire in her eyes. He watched it flicker out. She smiled wearily, “So you think I haven’t any passion!—Oh, well, we’re going to have fine times, now that you’ve begun to criticize.—I’m sleepy. I think I’ll go to bed.”

She rose and strolled away. Leaving his own suit-case at the cafe, he picked up hers and followed. They found a quaint hotel with a courtyard full of blossoming rhododendrons. Running round it, outside the second-story, was a balcony on to which the bedrooms opened. While he was arranging terms in the office, she went to inspect the room that was offered. In a few minutes she sent for her suitcase. He waited half-an-hour; she did not rejoin him.

At the far end of the square he had noticed an old-fashioned hostel. He claimed his baggage at the caf茅, and took a room at the wine-tavern. Having bought a sketching-book, pencils and water-colors, he found the bridge which spans the Rhone between Avignon and Villeneuve. All morning he amused himself making drawings. About every half-hour a ramshackle bus passed him, going and returning. It was no more than boards spread across wheels, with an orange-colored canopy stretched over it. It was drawn by two lean horses, harnessed in with ropes and driven by a girl. He didn’t notice her much at first; the blue river, the white banks, the blue sky, the jagged, vineyard covered hills, and the darting of swallows claimed his attention. It was the bus that he noticed; it creaked and groaned as though it would fall to pieces. Then he saw the girl; she was young and bronzed and laughing. He traced a resemblance in her to Desire—to Desire when she was lenient and happy. She was bare-armed, bare-headed, full-breasted; her hair was black as ebony. She was always singing. About the fifth time in passing him, she smiled. He began to tell himself stories; in Desire’s absence, he watched for her as Desire’s proxy.

At mid-day he went to find Desire; he was told that she was still sleeping. He had d茅jeuner by himself at the caf茅 in the square from which the bus started. When the meal was ended, as he finished his carafe of wine, he made sketches of the girl. When he presented her with one of them, she accepted it from him shyly. His Anglicized French was scarcely intelligible; but after that when she passed him, she smiled more openly.

During the afternoon he called three times at the hotel. Each time he received the same reply, that Mademoiselle was sleeping.

The sky was like an open furnace. Streets were empty. While sketching he had noticed a bathing-house, tethered against the bank below the bridge. He went there to get cool He tried the diving-boards; none of them were high enough. Presently he climbed on to the scorching roof and went off from there. People crossing the bridge stopped to watch him. Once as he was preparing to take the plunge, he saw the orange streak of the old bus creeping across the blue between the girders. He waited till it was just above him. It pulled up. The girl leant out and waved. After that, when he saw the orange streak approaching he waited until it had stopped above him.

The quiet of evening was falling when he again went in search of Desire. This time he was told she had gone out. He left word that he was going to the old Papal Garden, on the rock above............