The Dark Star

Through the crowded Paris terminal Neeland pushed his way, carrying

the olive-wood box in his hand and keeping an eye on his porter, who

preceded him carrying the remainder of his luggage and repeating:

"Place, s'il vous plaît, m'sieu', dames!"

To Neeland it was like a homecoming after many years' exile; the

subtle but perfectly specific odour of Paris assailed his nostrils

once again; the rapid, emphatic, lively language of France sounded

once more delightfully in his eager ears; vivacity and intelligence

sparkled in every eye that met his own. It was a throng of rapid

movement, of animated speech, of gesticulation. And, as it was in the

beginning when he first arrived there as a student, he fell in love

with it at first sight and contact.

All around him moved porters, passengers, railroad officials; the red

képis of soldiers dotted the crowd; a priest or two in shovel hat

and buckled shoes, a Sister of Charity from the Rue de Bac lent graver

accents to the throng; and everywhere were the pretty bourgeois women

of the capital gathered to welcome relatives or friends, or themselves

starting on some brief summer voyage so dear to those who seldom find

it in their hearts to leave Paris for longer than a fortnight at a

time.

As he pressed onward he witnessed characteristic reunions between

voyagers and friends who awaited them--animated, cordial, gay scenes

complicated by many embraces on both cheeks.

And, of a sudden, he noticed the prettiest girl he had ever seen in

his life. She was in white, with a black straw hat, and her face and

figure were lovely beyond words. Evidently she was awaiting friends;

there was a charming expectancy on her fresh young face, a slight

forward inclination of her body, as though expectancy and happy

impatience alone controlled her.

Her beauty almost took his breath away.

"Lord!" he thought to himself. "If such a girl as that ever stood

waiting for me----"

At the same moment her golden-grey eyes, sweeping the passing crowd,

met his; a sharp thrill of amazement passed through him as she held

out both gloved hands with a soft exclamation of recognition: "Jim! Jim Neeland!"

"Rue Carew!" He could scarcely credit his eyesight, where he stood,

hat in hand, holding both her little hands in one of his.

No, there was no use in trying to disguise his astonishment. He looked

into the face of this tall young girl, searched it for familiar

features, recognised a lovely paraphrase of the freckled face and thin

figure he remembered, and remained dumb before this radiant

reincarnation of that other unhappy, shabby, and meagre child he had

known two years ago.