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George Hardy and Miss Julia Armstrong sat down to supper at the little round table; Bax lurked as if he would wait; Hardy said they could manage very well without him, and the pair fell to. The window was open, and all the rich, decaying perfumes of the autumn evening floated into the atmosphere, and sweetened it with the incense of the night.
Hardy looked at his companion, and felt again the delight he used to take in the contemplation of her shape. The same old suggestion was in her -- that of the Vivandiere. But why? He could not have explained, and neither can I. Every movement was full of beauty and piquancy, and she wore her hair parted a little on one side.