He tried to remember the lady as she stood on his
threshold; she was not very young; fine features, grave dark eyes in a
worn face. Where had he seen her before? The fugitive impression faded
as he tried to hold it.
He saw her again two or three days later, not far from him in the
Luxembourg Gardens. She walked on and as he crossed the path to meet
her she stopped and waited for him. He thanked her, and asked why she
had gone away so quickly the other day, without saying who she was.
And as he spoke it came to him that he had known her for a long time.
He used to see her formerly in the Luxembourg, or in the neighbouring
streets, with a tall boy who must have been her son. Every time
they passed each other their eyes used to meet with a half-smile of
respectful recognition. And though he did not know their name, and
they had never exchanged a word, they were to him part of those
friendly shadows which throng about our daily life, not always noticed
when they are there, but which leave a gap when they disappear.
At once his thought leaped from the woman before him to the young
companion whom he missed from her side. In these days of mourning you
could never tell who might be still in the land of the living, but he
cried impulsively:
"It was your son who wrote to me?"
"Yes," said she, "he is a great admirer of yours.
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