in such emergencies. Meanwhile his cloud floated him toward the Parc Monceau which was proudly displaying its fashionable spring foliage, in all shades of green from canary to bottle. He passed through the great iron grille and strolled down the path toward a penny chair which gave him a view of the group of lovely, mellow, crumbling Corinthian pillars mirrored in the surface of the lake. Lonely, haphazard souls strolled by him at intervals, mostly decent and anaemic men and women, each with a bunion or a limp, or a hat that belied the face under it. Life is hard, Grover commiserated, and not many can bear the weight of it without cracking or developing excrescences.
One girl, standing near the edge of the water and throwing crumbs to the birds, was a beautiful exception to prove the rule. Her back was turned, but in its slimness and smartness one could take an impersonal joy. When one woman belongs to you, he reflected in contentment, it's as though the beauty of all other women were paying tribute to her. Only your French women had the clue to real chic; aside from their taste there was an indefinable style in their manner of standing, of walking. She had turned into a path, her gaze idly directed toward a statue, when, with a gasp, he rose to catch a closer glimpse of her.
Rhoda!
And not French at all!
With a thrill that tore through him he hurried after her. She had halted before the clinging marble figures
