Peter Mowbray first saw her at the corner of Palace Square nearest the river. He was not in the least the kind of young man who passing women, very far from a starer. At the instant their eyes met, his thoughts had been occupied with work matters and the trickery of events. In fact, there was so much to do that he resented the intrusion, found himself hoping in the first flash that she would show some flaw to break the attraction.  
It may have been that her eyes were called to the passer-by just as his had been, without warning or . In any event their eyes met full, in that stirring silence before the consciousness of self, time, place and convention rushes in. ... Though she seemed very poor, there was something about her beyond reach in nobility. He was left with the impression of the whitest skin, the blackest hair and the reddest lips, but mainly of a gray-eyed girl—eyes that had become wider and wider, and had filled with sudden (doubtless at her own answering look) before they turned away.
 
Desolation was abroad in Warsaw after this encounter. Mowbray thought of New York with loneliness, the gone from all present activity. Presently with curious grip his thoughts returned to a certain in New York with a tired literary man who had talked about women with the air of a . The pith of the writer's observations was restored to his mind in this form:
 
“If I were to marry again it would be to a Latin woman—French, Italian, even Spanish—a close-to-nature woman born and bred in one of the countries. Not a blue-blood, for that has to do with , but a woman of the people. They are but pure, as Poe would say. If they find a man of any value, he becomes their world. They are strong natural mothers—mothering their children and their husband, too,—and immune to common sicknesses. Given a little food, they know enough to prepare it with art. If a man has a bit of a dream left, such a woman will either make him forget it painlessly, or she will make it come true.”
 
There was no apparent relation, and none that proved . What he had seen at the corner of Palace Square nearest the Vistula was not the face of a Latin woman, nor was any looseness of common birth evident in it. The key might have had to do with the little hat she wore, just a hat for wearing on the head, a protection against sun and rain, and with the simple black dress; but these weathered again were effective in contrast to the vivid freshness of her natural coloring. As for what remained of the literary man's picture of the ideal woman to marry, it was the last word of decadence—the selfishness of a man willing to accept the luxury of a woman who asks little to be happy. ... The next day at the same time and place Mowbray was there, and saw her coming from afar.
 
She seemed both afraid and angry, stopped and asked in Polish what he wanted. He was startled. It was a hard moment. He explained with difficulty that her language was as yet an vehicle for him.
 
“You are not Russian?” she said in French.
 
He shook his head. She seemed to be relieved and he wondered why.
 
“What do you want?” she asked, though not quite with the original .
 
“It did not occur to me you would notice,” he said in the language she had ventured. “I saw you yesterday. You made me think of New York. As I was near to-day, I hoped to see you again—-”
 
“You are American?” She now in English, and with a still softer .
 
“Yes,—you speak English, too?”
 
“I like it. It is—-” she checked herself and asked with just a shade of coldness, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
 
It might be as a courtesy to a stranger from one who lived in Warsaw. Peter liked it, a certain opening. However, there was no answer within reach except the truth, and he :
 
“I should like to know you better.”
 
The red lower lip disappeared beneath the other. Her gray eyes grew very wide; something and in her manner as she searched his face. Whatever she knew of the world, she dared still to trust her intuition—this was something of the revelation he drew.
 
“Why?”
 
Many people were passing. He looked toward the quieter center of the Square.
 
“Will you walk with me there?” he asked. “It is not easy to explain this sort of thing—-”
 
“No. I must go on. You may walk a little way.”
 
“You are very good.... You see, I cannot tell just why—as you asked. If I knew you well, I could tell you. Yesterday I was quite unromantic—-”
 
She made it hard for him and did not let him see her smile. “You mean you are romantic to-day?”
 
Peter laughed. “What a trap—and I was trying so hard to tell you.”
 
“You were trying—-”
 
“I don't need to tell you. All there is to say is that I want you to be my friend.”
 
“I should have to think,” she answered.
 
“Of course. ... Do you pass here every day?”
 
“I should have to think,” she said.
 
It was the third day afterward that she passed again.