"
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.
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