Louisa Pallant

I

Never say you know the last words about any human heart! I was once
treated to a revelation which startled and touched me in the nature of a
person with whom I had been acquainted--well, as I supposed--for years,
whose character I had had good reasons, heaven knows, to appreciate and
in regard to whom I flattered myself I had nothing more to learn.

It was on the terrace of the Kursaal at Homburg, nearly ten years ago,
one beautiful night toward the end of July. I had come to the place that
day from Frankfort, with vague intentions, and was mainly occupied in
waiting for my young nephew, the only son of my sister, who had been
entrusted to my care by a very fond mother for the summer--I was
expected to show him Europe, only the very best of it--and was on his
way from Paris to join me. The excellent band discoursed music not too
abstruse, while the air was filled besides with the murmur of different
languages, the smoke of many cigars, the creak on the gravel of the
gardens of strolling shoes and the thick tinkle of beer-glasses. There
were a hundred people walking about, there were some in clusters at
little tables and many on benches and rows of chairs, watching the
others as if they had paid for the privilege and were rather
disappointed. I was among these last; I sat by myself, smoking my cigar
and thinking of nothing very particular while families and couples
passed and repassed me.

I scarce know how long I had sat when I became aware of a recognition
which made my meditations definite. It was on my own part, and the
object of it was a lady who moved to and fro, unconscious of my
observation, with a young girl at her side. I hadn't seen her for ten
years, and what first struck me was the fact not that she was Mrs. Henry
Pallant, but that the girl who was with her was remarkably pretty--or
rather first of all that every one who passed appeared extremely to
admire. This led me also to notice the young lady myself, and her
charming face diverted my attention for some time from that of her
companion. The latter, moreover, though it was night, wore a thin light
veil which made her features vague. The couple slowly walked and walked,
but though they were very quiet and decorous, and also very well
dressed, they seemed to have no friends. Every one observed but no one
addressed them; they appeared even themselves to exchange very few
words. Moreover they bore with marked composure and as if they were
thoroughly used to it the attention they excited. I am afraid it
occurred to me to take for granted that they were of an artful intention
and that if they hadn't been the elder lady would have handed the
younger over a little less to public valuation and not have sought so to
conceal her own