Yes, he had been in Paris himself that spring, a man of thirty-three or so, feeling as old almost as he did to-day, a widower with his little girl.

If only they might have met then, he and that serious, starry-eyed girl in the photograph! Hearing Pete coming, he set the photograph back in its place, and, sitting down, picked up the first paper within reach.
"Good night, sir," said Pete from the doorway.
"Good night, my dear boy.

Good luck!" They shook hands.
"Funny old duck," Pete thought as he went down-stairs whistling, "sitting there so contentedly reading 'The Harvard Lampoon.' Wonder what he thinks of it." He did not wonder long, though, for more interesting subjects of consideration were at hand.

What reception would he meet at the Farrons?
What arrangements would be made, what assumptions permitted?
But even more immediate than this was the problem how could he contrive to greet Mrs.Farron?
He was shocked to find how little he had been able to forgive her.

There was something devilish, he thought, in the way she had contrived to shake his self-confidence at the moment of all others when he had needed it.