became a glaring reality, and the painted female sipping eau-de-vie at my elbow remarked plaintively, "Tu n'es pas rigolo, toi. Vieux-tu faire une valse?"
"I must speak to your musician," I said. "Excuse me."
He had played a bit of Pair's music. It was one chance in a thousand, but I wanted to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the composer. So I penetrated to the bottom of the shop, and approached his platform. He was bending over some sheets of music—making his next selection, doubtless.
"I beg your pardon———" I began.
He turned towards me. You will not be surprised—I was looking into Pair's own face.
You will not be surprised, but you will imagine what it was for me. Oh, yes, I recognised him instantly; there could be no mistake. And he recognised me, for he flushed, and winced, and started back.
I suppose for a little while we were both of us speechless, speechless and motionless, while our hearts stopped beating. By-and-by I think I said—something had to be said to break the situation—I think I said, "It's you, Edmund?" I remember he fumbled with a sheet of music, and kept his eyes bent on it, and muttered something inarticulate. Then there was another speechless, helpless suspension. He continued to fumble his music, without looking up. At last I remember saying, through a sort of sickness and giddiness, "Let us get out of here—where we can talk."
"I can't leave yet. I've got another dance," he answered.
"Well, I'll wait," said I.
I sat down near him and waited, trying to create some kind oforder