Abe left from the Gare Saint Lazare at eleven — he stood alone under the fouled¹ glass dome², relic³ of the seventies, era of the Crystal Palace; his hands, of that vague gray color that only twenty-four hours can produce, were in his coat pockets to conceal⁴ the trembling fingers. With his hat removed it was plain that only the top layer of his hair was brushed back — the lower levels were pointed⁵ resolutely⁶ sidewise. He was scarcely recognizable as the man who had swum upon Gausse’s Beach a fortnight ago.

He was early; he looked from left to right with his eyes only; it would have taken nervous forces out of his control to use any other part of his body. New-looking baggage went past him; presently prospective⁷ passengers, with dark little bodies, were calling: “Jew-uls-HOO-OO!” in dark piercing voices.

At the minute when he wondered whether or not he had time for a drink at the buffet⁸, and began clutching at the soggy wad of thousand-franc notes in his pocket, one end of his pendulous⁹ glance came to rest upon the apparition¹⁰ of Nicole at the stairhead. He watched her — she was self-revelatory in her little expressions as people seem to some one waiting for them, who as yet is himself unobserved. She was frowning, thinking of her children, less gloating over them than merely animally counting them — a cat checking her cubs¹¹ with a paw.

When she saw Abe, the mood passed out of her face; the glow of the morning skylight was sad, and Abe made a gloomy figure with dark circles that showed through the

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