“Do you think it’s queer that I’m writing all this? It does seem queer, yet I’d have written it before if I’d ever come over to stay in England; but except when I rushed across to join up, I’ve pretty well stuck to British Columbia. I don’t even know exactly where you are, for I’ve not met a soul who knows you for ages. I heard of your father’s death of course, and was terribly sorry—beyond that I’ve heard nothing; still, I fancy I’m quite safe in sending this to Morton.
“I’m staying with my aunt, the Comtesse de Mirac; she’s English, twice married and once more a widow. She’s been a perfect angel to me. I’ve been staying with her ever since I came to Paris. Well, my dear, if you’ve forgiven my mistake—and please say you have, we were both very young—then write to me at Aunt Sarah’s address, and if you write don’t forget to put ‘Passy.’ The posts are so erratic in France, and I’d hate to think that they’d lost your letter. Your very sincere friend, Martin Hallam.”
Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the garden still admiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or two she would feed the pigeons—yes, she was starting to cross the lawn to the shed in which she kept pigeon-mixture—but presently she would be coming in. Stephen sat down and began to think quickly.
Martin Hallam—he must be about thirty-nine. He had fought in the war and been badly wounded—she had thought of him during that terrible advance, the smitten trees had been a reminder. … He must often have been very near her then; he was very near now, just out at Passy, and he wanted to see her; he offered his friendship.
She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mind must conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims’ dance—oh, but very young—with a bony face that glowed when he talked of the beauty of trees, of their goodness … a tall, loose-limbed young man who slouched when he walked, as though from much riding. The hills … winter hills rust-coloured by bracken … Martin touching the ancient thorns with kind fingers. “Look, Stephen—the courage of these old fellows!” How clearly she remembered his actual words after all these years, and her own she remembered: “You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had except Father—our friendship’s so wonderful somehow. …” And his answer: “I know, a wonderful friendship.” A great sense of companionship, of comfort—it had been so good to have him beside her; she had liked his quiet and careful voice, and his thoughtful blue eyes that moved rather slowly. He had filled a real need that had always been hers and still was, a need for the friendship of men—how very completely Martin had filled it, until. … But she resolutely closed her mind, refusing to visualize that last picture. He knew now that it had been a ghastly mistake—he understood—he practically said so. Could they take up their friendship where they had left it? If only they could …
She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk. Glancing at his letter, she rang up a number.
“Hallo-yes?”
She recognized his voice at once.
“Is that you, Martin? It’s Stephen speaking.”
“Stephen … oh, I’m so glad! But where on earth are you?”
“At my house in Paris—35, Rue Jacob.”
“But I don’t understand, I thought …”
“Yes, I know, but I’ve lived here for ages—since before the war. I’ve just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny, isn’t it? Why not come to dinner tonight if you’re free—eight o’clock.”
“I say! May I really?”
“Of course … come and dine with my friend and me.”
“What number?”
“Thirty-five—35, Rue Jacob.”
“I’ll be there on the actual stroke of eight!”
“That’s right—goodbye, Martin.”
“Goodbye, and thanks, Stephen.”
She hung up the receiver and opened the window.
Mary saw her and called: “Stephen, please speak to David. He’s just bitten off and swallowed a crocus! Oh, and do come here: the scyllas are out, I never saw anything like their blueness. I think I shall go and fetch my birds, it’s quite warm in the sun over there by the wall. David, stop it; will you get off that border!”
David wagged a bald but ingratiating tail. Then he thrust out his nose and sniffed at the pigeons. Oh, hang it all, why should the coming of spring be just one colossal smell of temptation! And why was there nothing really exciting that a spaniel might do and yet remain lawful? Sighing, he turned amber eyes of entreaty first on Stephen, and then on his goddess, Mary.
She forgave him the crocus and patted his head. “Darling, you get more than a pound of raw meat for your dinner; you mustn’t be so untruthful. Of course you’re not hungry—it was just pure mischief.”
He barked, trying desperately hard to explain. “It’s the spring; it’s got into my blood, oh, Goddess! Oh, Gentle Purveyor of all Good Things, let me dig till I’ve rooted up every damned crocus; just this once let me sin for the joy of life, for the ancient and exquisite joy of sinning!”
But Mary shook her head. “You must be a nice dog; and nice dogs never look at white fantail pigeons, or walk on the borders, or bite off the flowers—do they, Stephen?”
Stephen smiled. “I’m afraid they don’t, David.” Then she said: “Mary, listen—about this evening. I’ve just heard from a very old friend of mine, a man called Hallam that I knew in England. He’s in Paris; it’s too queer. He wrote to Morton and his letter has been sent back by Puddle. I’ve rung
