I had enough and to spare then," Bartley mused,
and looked thoughtfully at his cigar.
They were both remembering what the
woman had said when she took the money:
"God give you a happy love!" It was not in
the ingratiating tone of the habitual beggar:
it had come out of the depths of the poor creature's
sorrow, vibrating with pity for their youth
and despair at the terribleness of human life;
it had the anguish of a voice of prophecy.
Until she spoke, Bartley had not realized
that he was in love. The strange woman,
and her passionate sentence that rang
out so sharply, had frightened them both.
They went home sadly with the lilacs, back
to the Rue Saint-Jacques, walking very slowly,
arm in arm. When they reached the house
where Hilda lodged, Bartley went across the
court with her, and up the dark old stairs to
the third landing; and there he had kissed her
for the first time. He had shut his eyes to
give him the courage, he remembered, and
she had trembled so--
Bartley started when Hilda rang the little
bell beside her. "Dear me, why did you do
that? I had quite forgotten--I was back there.
It was very jolly," he murmured lazily, as
Marie came in to take away the coffee.
Hilda laughed and went over to the
piano. "Well, we are neither of us twenty
now, you know. Have I told you about my
new play? Mac is writing one; really for me
this time. You see, I'm coming on."
"I've seen nothing else.
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