She had stopped in front of a window.
Should he steal away, into the next street? What was she standing there for? The window was a poor one, a little shop-window which showed some crass bars of red soap, a glass jar of meal, and some foreign stamps for sale.
Perhaps he could go on another dozen paces and then turn.
Then she looked at him and suddenly came towards him again. She walked quickly, as though she had plucked up courage, and when she spoke her breath came with difficulty. She smiled nervously.
"Good afternoon. I'm so glad to meet you."
Heavens, what a struggle there was in his heart; it wasn't beating, it shivered. He tried to say something but didn't succeed, only his lips moved. A fragrance issued from her clothes, her yellow dress, or perhaps it was from her mouth. At that moment he had no clear impression of her face; but he recognized her fine shoulders and her long, slender hand on the handle of her parasol. It was her right hand. There was a ring on it.
For the first few seconds he did not reflect upon this and had no feeling of disaster. But her hand was wonderfully beautiful.
"I've been a whole week in town," she went on; "but I haven't seen you. Oh yes, I saw you once in the street; somebody told me it was you. You've grown so much."
He muttered:
"I knew you were in town. Are you staying long?"