"Yes, I consider myself English. I am very much obliged. Good-morning." This decidedly, though politely.
Glynn felt himself obliged to relinquish an eagerly-formed intention of drawing her into conversation. He could not thrust himself upon a lady, and he felt strongly disposed to believe that his new acquaintance was thoroughly a lady, though a knowledge of life in most European capitals disposed him to suspend his judgment. He followed her at a little distance as she threaded her way through the booths which shelter the flower-sellers and their fragrant wares, till she reached one where she was apparently greeted as a regular customer by its wrinkled owner. Then with a certain degree of contempt for his own weakness he turned resolutely away, and walked down the new Boulevard Malesherbes.
He had not gone far, when his attention was attracted by a figure advancing with a somewhat slouching gait towards him, a man of scarcely middle height, but broadly and strongly built, well, though rather showily, dressed, his trousers tight below the knee, and loose above, his cut-away coat, bright-colored necktie, and low-crowned hat, had a horsey aspect; a broad, sun-burnt face, with well-trimmed, but coarse, red moustaches and hair, a blunt, resolute nose, sharp, light eyes, the lids puckered, as if from trying to look at strong sunlight, gave him an air of intense knowingness; all these seemed somewhat familiar to Glynn, as was also a certain expression of lazy good-nature, which softened the ruggedness of his aspect.
While Glynn was struggling to answer the question with which we have all puzzled ourselves at one time or another—"Where have I seen that face?"—its owner stopped suddenly before him, exclaiming, "Mr. Glynn! if I am not greatly mistaken; I hope I see you well, sir."
The voice and accent, which were peculiar, neither French, nor English, nor American, though a little of all, with an undertone of something that was none of the three, brought back to Glynn, as by magic, certain passages of his life ten years before—a big, crowded, gambling saloon in the Far West, dim with tobacco smoke, and hot with gas-lights, reeking with the fumes of strong drink, and echoing with the din of strange oaths, suddenly rose from out the caverns of memory, a confusion of struggling figures, a hand-to-hand conflict, the man before him gallantly backing him in a desperate fight to reach the door.
"Mr. Merrick, I had no idea you were at this side of the Atlantic!"
"I have been more than once at this side of the Atlantic since we met last. You know all good Yankees hope to go to Paris not only when they die, but a considerable few times before that event. I'm right glad to meet you; and, before going further, I beg to observe that I have assumed" (he said "ashumed") "another name since I had the pleasure of seeing you: or rather, I have reverted to my original patronymic, which was a deuced deal too good for the raff amongst whom we were temporarily engulfed, to mouth. Allow me"—with an elegant air he drew forth a note-book, and presented a card engraved, "Captain Lambert, U.S.C., 27 Rue de L'Evêque." "Times have changed for the better with me, and I am now established here permanently."
"Glad to hear it, Captain Lambert," said Glynn, amused by the rencontre. Then glancing at the card, "You are no longer on active service?"
"No, in a sense, no. Life is always more or less a battle; but for the present the bugles sing truce, and I am enjoying well-earned rest in the society of my daughter and only child, to whom I shall be delighted to introduce an esteemed comrade, if you will allow me to say so."
"You are very good! I shall be happy to make the young lady's acquaintance."