Arrived in Paris in the early morning, I drove at once to Cook’s and reserved passage on the first boat home. As I was turning away from the steamship desk, I had to walk past the window where mail is distributed. I do not think I was consciously looking at the crowd of men and women who were waiting for letters, in fact I remember quite well that I was losing my temper over an effort to put a too large envelope into my pocket, but suddenly I saw Suzanne Martin’s back. It was impossible to mistake it, or the glorious pile of hair above her slender neck. I walked on, intending to hurry away. But I stopped at the door. I picked up one of those highly colored tourist pamphlets—I think it was an advertisement of a "Tour to Versailles in motor cars"—and over the top of it I watched Suzanne gradually approach the window, get her handful of letters, and sit down in one of the easy chairs to read them. At last she finished with them and started towards the door. I wished that I had not waited, but was ashamed to let her see me run away. I became deeply interested in the little book. She would have to walk right past me but if she did not care to recognize well—-she should not know that I had seen her. *V* "Why—hello—Mr. Whitman." It was not till I heard her voice that I realized how much it mattered to me, whether she spoke or not. Somehow or other we got out of the door onto the Avenue de l’Opera. "Which way are you going?" she asked. "Nowhere in particular. May I walk along with you?" So here I was in Paris walking beside Suzanne. I suppose it had been a beautiful day before—it was early June, but it had suddenly become resplendent. The day had begun to laugh. I found out that she was intending to spend several weeks in Paris, so I lied and said I also was there for a month. With selfish glee I learned that Suzanne was lonely. She was evidently glad to have some one to talk to. Afraid that if I did not keep busy some other way, I might shout, I launched into a whimsical account of the prison congress. This carried us as far as a bench in the garden of the Tuileries. And there some chance word showed her that this was my first visit to Paris, that I had arrived hardly an hour before we met. "Oh!" she said, jumping up, "Then, the very first thing you must do, is to climb the tower of Notre Dame. That’s the place to get your first look at Paris." "_Allons donc_," I cried. I would have said the same if she had suggested the morgue.