Or else we walked through the gardens of the Prado in the warmth of a Spanish autumn and, later, smelt the eucalyptus and pine in the avenues of the Escorial. We ate in the most elegant restaurants of the Via Veneto-or Florian's in the Piazza San Marco at Venice. And then again we dined in the workers' cafes of the Porte de La Chapelle or by candlelight under the arcading of the Place des Vosges. Florence and Rome, Paris and Madrid, Venice and the Escorial were closer then than my companions. You see how far gone I was, my dear friend? You must not, however, believe that I fell suddenly in love with the girl-all at a thunderclap. Interest became preoccupation-and preoccupation became obsession before the evening was done. As Guenevere is made to say in her defence, it was as if one should Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day… It does not convince you, my dear Maude. Does it? I cannot excuse-I cannot defend-I can scarcely explain my new infatuation. Yet I am infatuated. You must believe that. By the time that the interval in the recital came, and our party withdrew to take the air for ten minutes on the terrace, I could not banish her from my mind. “Whoe'er she be! That not-impossible she!” As we strolled under the round globes of the lamps on their ornate wrought-iron pillars, the gowns of the women were pale and luminous. It was a time between lamplight and twilight.

What a fool I made of myself in conversation, dear Maude. I was possessed, you see, by the thought that once the recital was over the girl and I would go our separate ways. I should never know who she was and never, never be able to identify her.