The Adventures of a Modest Man

The second day we ran out of the storm. I remember on that day that I wore a rather doggy suit of gray-a trifle too doggy for a man of my years. In my buttonhole reposed a white carnation, and as I strolled into the smoking-room I was humming under my breath an air from "Miss Helyet"-a thing I had not thought of in twenty years."Well, upon my word!" exclaimed a man who looked up from his novel as I entered the doorway. "Gad! You haven't changed in twenty years!-except that your moustache is--""Sure! And my temples, Williams! Besides, I have two grown-up daughters aboard! How are you, anyway, you Latin Quarter come-back?"We settled ourselves, hands still warmly clasped."You're not going back to Paris?" I asked."Why, man, I live there.""By George, so you do! I forgot."There was a silence-that smiling, retrospective silence which ends inevitably in a sigh not entirely painful."Are any of the old men left there?" I asked."Some.""I-I suppose the city has changed a lot. Men who've been over since, say so.""It hasn't changed, radically.""Hasn't it, Williams?" I asked wistfully."No. The old café is exactly the same. The Luxembourg Quarter will seem familiar to you--""I'm not going there," I said hastily.He smiled; I could see him doing it, askance. But my features remained dignified and my attitude detached."I wonder," I began carelessly, "whether--""She got married," he said casually; "I'm glad. She was a sweet little thing."