She had listened calmly. She did not answer his question. She said: “Kilby, I am staying at the summer hotel up there. Will you call on me—let me see.... say, to-morrow afternoon?—Some one will tell you the way, if you do not know it.... Ask for MRS. Falchion, Kilby, not Miss Falchion.... You will come?”
“Why, yes,” he replied, “you can count on me; for I’d like to hear of things that happened after I left Apia—and how it is that you are Mrs. Falchion, for that’s mighty queer.”
“You shall hear all that and more.” She held out her hand to him and smiled. He took it, and she knew that now she was gathering up the strings of destiny.
They parted.
The two passed on, looking, in their cool elegance, as if life were the most pleasant thing; as though the very perfume of their garments would preserve them from that plague called trouble.
“Justine,” said Mrs. Falchion, “there is one law stranger than all; the law of coincidence. Perhaps the convenience of modern travel assists it, but fate is in it also. Events run in circles. People connected with them travel that way also. We pass and re-pass each other many times, but on different paths, until we come close and see each other face to face.”
She was speaking almost the very words which Roscoe had spoken to me. But perhaps there was nothing strange in that.
“Yes, madame,” replied Justine; “it is so, but there is a law greater than coincidence.”
“What, Justine?”
“The law of love, which is just and merciful, and would give peace instead of trouble.”