With emotions difficult to appreciate Edward found himself at home, for of all places Paris meant that to him. He went at once to his old quarters; a suite of rooms in a quiet but accessible street, where was combined something of both city and suburban life. The concierge almost overwhelmed him with his welcome.
In obedience to his letters, everything had been placed in order, books and furniture dusted, the linen renewed, the curtains laundered and stiffened anew, and on the little center table was a vase of crimson roses—a contribution for madame and mademoiselle.
His own, the larger room, was surrendered to the ladies; the smaller he retained. There was the little parlor between, for common use. Outside was the shady vista of the street and in the distance the murmur of the city.
Mrs. Montjoy was delighted with the arrangement and the scene. Mary absorbed all the surroundings of the owner's past life; every picture, every book and bit of bric-a-brac, all were parts of him and full of interest. The very room seemed imbued with his presence. Here was his shaded student's lamp, there the small upright piano, with its stack of music and, in place ready for the player, an open sheet. It might have been yesterday that he arose from its stool, walked out and closed the door.
It was a little home, and when coming into the parlor from his dressing room, Edward saw her slender figure, he paused, and then the old depression returned.
She found him watching her, and noted the troubled look upon his face.
"It is all so cozy and beautiful," she said. "I am so glad that you brought us here rather than to a hotel."
"And I, too, if you are pleased."
"Pleased! It is simply perfect!"
A note lay upon the center table. He noticed that it was addressed to him, and, excusing himself, opened it and read: