"Mrs. Barry-Smith,"--thus I began,--"if you've the tiniest scrap of pity in your heart for a very presumptuous, blundering and unhappy person, I pray you to forgive and to forget, as people say, all that I have blatted out to you. I spoke, as I thought, to a free woman, who had the right to listen to my boyish talk, even though she might elect to laugh at it. And now I hardly dare to ask forgiveness." Mrs. Barry-Smith inspected a view of the Matterhorn, with careful deliberation. "Forgiveness?" said she. "Indeed," said I, "I _don't_ deserve it." And I smiled most resolutely. "I had always known that somewhere, somehow, you would come into my life again. It has been my dream all these two years; but I dream carelessly. My visions had not included this--obstacle." She made wide eyes at me. "What?" said she. "Your husband," I suggested, delicately. The eyes flashed. And a view of Monaco, to all appearances, awoke some pleasing recollection. "I confess," said Mrs. Barry-Smith, "that--for the time--I had quite forgotten him. I--I reckon you must think me very horrid?" But she was at pains to accompany this query with a broadside that rendered such a supposition most unthinkable. And so-- "I think you--" My speech was hushed and breathless, and ended in a click of the teeth. "Oh, don't let's go into the minor details," I pleaded. Then Mrs. Barry-Smith descended to a truism. "It is usually better not to," said she, with the air of an authority. And latterly, addressing the facade of Notre Dame, "You see, Mr. Barry-Smith being so much older than I--" "I would prefer that. Of course, though, it is none of my business." "You see, you came and went so suddenly that--of course I never thought to see you again--not that I ever thought about it, I reckon--" Her candour would have been cruel had it not been reassuringly over-emphasized. "And Mr. Barry-Smith was very pressing--" "He would be," I assented, after consideration. "It is, indeed, the single point in his outrageous conduct I am willing to condone." "--and he was a great friend of my father's, and I _liked_ him--" "So you married him and lived together ever afterward, without ever throwing the tureen at each other. That is the most modern version; but there is usually a footnote concerning the bread-and-butter plates." She smiled, inscrutably, a sphinx in Dresden china. "And yet," she murmured, plaintively, "I _would_ like to know what you think of me." "Why, prefacing with the announcement that I pray God I may never see you after to-night, I think you the most adorable creature He ever made. What does it matter now? I have lost you. I think--ah, desire o' the world, what can I think of you? The notion of you dazzles me like flame,--and I dare not think of you, for I love you." "Yes?" she queried, sweetly; "then I reckon Mrs. Dumby was right after all. She said you were a most depraved person and that, as a young and--well, _she_ said it, you know--attractive widow--"