"
Bartley looked at Hilda across the yellow light of the candles and broke
into a low, happy laugh. "How jolly it was being young, Hilda! Do you
remember that first walk we took together in Paris? We walked down to
the Place Saint-Michel to buy some lilacs. Do you remember how sweet
they smelled?"
"Indeed I do. Come, we'll have our coffee in the other room, and you can
smoke."
Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished to change the drift of their talk,
but Bartley found it pleasant to continue it.
"What a warm, soft spring evening that was," he went on, as they sat
down in the study with the coffee on a little table between them; "and
the sky, over the bridges, was just the color of the lilacs. We walked
on down by the river, didn't we?"
Hilda laughed and looked at him questioningly. He saw a gleam in her
eyes that he remembered even better than the episode he was recalling.
"I think we did," she answered demurely. "It was on the Quai we met
that woman who was crying so bitterly. I gave her a spray of lilac,
I remember, and you gave her a franc. I was frightened at your
prodigality."
"I expect it was the last franc I had. What a strong brown face she had,
and very tragic. She looked at us with such despair and longing, out
from under her black shawl. What she wanted from us was neither our
flowers nor our francs, but just our youth. I remember it touched me
so. I would have given her some of mine off my back, if I could. I had
enough and to spare then," Bartley mused, and looked thoughtfully at his
cigar.
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