That spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Francaise, Stephen stumbled across a link with the past in the person of a middle-aged woman. The woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already greying; her face, which was long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguely familiar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen’s two hands were seized and held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voice grown loud with delight and emotion was saying: ‘Mais oui, c’est ma petite Stévenne!’ Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a battered red book on its ink-stained table—the Bibliothèque Rose—‘Les Petites Filles Modèles,’ ‘Les Bons Enfants,’ and Mademoiselle Duphot. Stephen said: ‘To think—after all these years!’ ‘Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!’ babbled Mademoiselle Duphot. And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held at arm’s length for a better inspection. ‘But how tall, how strong you are, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that we meet in Paris? I say when I go, “But you come to Paris when you grow up bigger, my poor little baby!” I keep looking and looking, but I knowed you at once. I say, “Oui certainement, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one ’ave such another face what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne,” I say. And now voilà! I am correct and I find you.’ Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French to calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every moment. ‘I’m living in Paris altogether,’ she told her; ‘you must come and see me—come to dinner to-morrow; 35, Rue Jacob.’ Then she introduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator. The two ex-guardians of Stephen’s young mind shook hands with each other very politely, and they made such a strangely contrasted couple that Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was so small, so quiet and so English; the other so portly, so tearful, so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion. As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able to observe her more closely, and she saw that her face was excessively childish—a fact which she, when a child, had not noticed. It was more the face of a foal than a horse—an innocent, new-born foal. Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: ‘I will dine with much pleasure to-morrow evening, but when will you come and see me in my home? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small apartment, very small but so pretty—it is pleasant to have one’s treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me, Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money when she died; it has proved a great consolation.’ ‘I’ll come very soon,’ promised Stephen.