They were walking down the magnificent Rue Soufflet, Hamilton immersed in thought, Meadows keeping up the burden of conversation. At the corner of Rue de St. Jacques, Meadows pointed out the bronze tablet of the old Porte St. Jacques and for a moment they paused to decipher it. Between the Parthenon, which glittered from an eminence to the east and Boulevard St. Michel ahead, crowds of students were walking leisurely arm in arm, arguing, gesticulating, singing. Men with beards and boyish faces, voluptuous velvet hats; thin, threadbare coats. There were pale young men, with negligent clothing and an air of being mildly intoxicated. Over the buildings to the north rose the towers of the Sorbonne.
The students formed a background—a restless current, sparkling, gay, animated, against which moved other figures; girls in gay clothes, coats to their knees, bobbed hair, stopping to flirt; men of affairs hurrying to the boulevard; officers, including a score of foreigners doing the Latin Quartier. Crippled soldiers. On the road the stream of taxis and motor cars.
Meadows’ blue cloak made a daub of color in the picture and Hamilton’s quick eyes noted it. He was thinking how well she fitted into his brief world here. He was wondering how she would fit into life in New York—or Corinth. And again he compared her with that other figure. He wished it were Spring.
A man and woman went by, their arms around each other, unmindful of the world—a man with long hair and a silky beard, meanly dressed, without gloves; a frail blonde with high run-down heels and torn gloves. But their eyes shone. Hamilton envied them.
They crossed the Boulevard St. Michel and entered the Luxembourg Gardens. There were other couples walking about, examining the statuary and sitting on the benches. Some were making love openly; others more subtly. Near a bronze statue of a fawn sat a one-legged soldier and his wife. They were holding hands and looking before them vacantly. A boy of four in a soldier’s suit stood watching them gravely. There were other soldiers, many of them crippled.
Hamilton was acutely conscious of the shortness of the day. A few more hours and it would be over. Then, farewell to Paris and Meadows. He was falling into a sentimental mood. He wondered whether he should tell her of his engagement to Margaret. Probably she had guessed it. At any rate, he decided, there was no occasion for his mentioning it now.
Near the Fontaine de Medicis they found a bench thoughtfully hidden from the walk by shrubbery. They sat down and suddenly looked into each other’s eyes. The sun was falling in a stream across her hair and a coquettish puff of wind was toying with a loosened strand. They were so close now that the end touched his cheek. He leaned over, his heart pounding, while his hand found hers. But she lowered her head, turned it to one side and looked away.
He remained holding her hand and presently she looked up. They went on talking, rapidly, lightly, neither understanding what they were saying, conscious of only one thing, and determined not to acknowledge its presence. To acknowledge it would mean to stifle it.
How had this happened? He had simply meant to say good-bye to Dorothy—that is, to Meadows. He owed her much for her kindness in the hospital. That was all. And here he was holding her hand. It was too late to withdraw his hand. He must wait until she took hers away. But probably she was unconscious that they were holding hands. Women sometimes were like that. Or, perhaps, it had no special meaning to her. Other persons were doing it and thinking nothing of it, couples probably even less intimate than they.
“And I suppose you’ll be seeing that girl in Corinth,” Meadows was saying.