The avenue was crowded. Idle promenaders mingled with people hurrying to and from work, all exhibiting, in dress and manner, the many phases of life in the metropolis. A touch of crispness in the air gave warning of the change in the season.
Margaret, broad and commanding, walked by the side of Helène as though protecting the slender figure in black from the press about them. Bent on their important affairs they stepped briskly along regardless of those about them and arrived at the gunsmith’s at the very instant of Michael Sweeney’s mishap.
Michael, bent and perspiring with the effort of collecting the scattered objects, straightened up to allow the two ladies to pass. Morton, at that moment, turned and saw one of them skip gracefully aside and then catch up with her companion’s gait. In that same instant Morton experienced a sudden singing in his brain followed by an association of ideas and an awakening of memory. He became dimly conscious of something familiar about the graceful skip of the young woman in black, and looked searchingly at the face beneath the broad-brimmed hat and veil. At once he made an undignified jump from the carriage step and was walking rapidly after the two girls.
He caught up with them and looked sharply as he passed; the next instant he had stopped right in front of them.
“Comtesse Helène!” he exclaimed, “you here?”
Helène shot a frightened look at the man before them.
“Mr. Morton!” The silvery voice bathed him in beatific memories. He saw nothing but the girl; nay, it may be doubted if he even saw her. He had taken the little hand which had been involuntarily stretched out to him and he now held it firmly as though fearful it might slip away from him, his face mirrored with his emotions. The rest of creation did not exist; it contained but this girl and himself.
“Comtesse Helène—for once fortune has favored me—I am so glad, so glad.” He could find no other words.
“Oh, Mr. Morton, I wrote you last night and mailed the letter this morning. And that I should meet you to-day of all days!”
“Pardon me, but I guess you’ve forgotten me,” interposed Margaret in her driest of drawls. “Won’t you introduce me, Helen?”