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I do remember, however, that it was on this first evening that Archie’s name came up. She attributed her own stay at Homburg to no refined nor exalted motive–didn’t put it that she was there from force of habit or because a high medical authority had ordered her to drink the waters; she frankly admitted the reason of her visit to have been simply that she didn’t know where else to turn. But she appeared to assume that my behaviour rested on higher grounds and even that it required explanation, the place being frivolous and modern–devoid of that interest of antiquity which I had ever made so much of. “Don’t you remember–ever so long ago–that you wouldn’t look at anything in Europe that wasn’t a thousand years old? Well, as we advance in life I suppose we don’t think that quite such a charm.” And when I mentioned that I had arrived because the place was as good as another for awaiting my nephew she exclaimed: “Your nephew–what nephew? He must have come up of late.” I answered that his name was Archie Parker and that he was modern indeed; he was to attain legal manhood in a few months and was in Europe for the first time. My last news of him had been from Paris and I was expecting to hear further from one day to the other. His father was dead, and though a selfish bachelor, little versed in the care of children, I was considerably counted on by his mother to see that he didn’t smoke nor flirt too much, nor yet tumble off an Alp.

Mrs. Pallant immediately guessed that his mother was my sister Charlotte, whom she spoke of familiarly, though I knew she had scarce seen her. Then in a moment it came to her which of the Parkers Charlotte had married; she remembered the family perfectly from the old New York days–“that disgustingly rich set.” She said it was very nice having the boy come out that way to my care; to which I replied that it was very nice for the boy. She pronounced the advantage rather mine–I ought to have had children; there was something so parental about me and I would have brought them up so well. She could make an allusion like that–to all that might have been and had not been–without a gleam of guilt in her eye; and I foresaw that before I left the place I should have confided to her that though I detested her and was very glad we had fallen out, yet our old relations had left me no heart for marrying another woman. If I had remained so single and so sterile the fault was nobody’s but hers. She asked what I meant to do with my nephew–to which I replied that it was much more a question of what he would do with me. She wished to know if he were a nice young man and had brothers and sisters and any particular profession. I assured her I had really seen little of him; I believed him to be six feet high and of tolerable parts. He was an only son, but there was a little sister at home, a delicate, rather blighted child, demanding all the mother’s care.

“So that makes your responsibility greater, as it were, about the boy, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Pallant.

“Greater? I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Why if the girl’s life’s uncertain he may become, some moment, all the mother has. So that being in your hands–“

“Oh I shall keep him alive, I suppose, if you mean that,” I returned.

“Well, WE won’t kill him, shall we, Linda?” my friend went on with a laugh.

“I don’t know–perhaps we shall!” smiled the girl.

II

I called on them the next at their lodgings, the modesty of which was enhanced by a hundred pretty feminine devices–flowers and photographs and portable knick-knacks and a hired piano and morsels of old brocade flung over angular sofas. I took them to drive; I met them again at the Kursaal; I arranged that we should dine together, after the Homburg fashion, at the same table d’hote; and during several days this revived familiar intercourse continued, imitating intimacy if not quite achieving it. I was pleased, as my companions passed the time for me and the conditions of our life were soothing–the feeling of summer and shade and music and leisure in the German gardens and woods, where we strolled and sat and gossiped; to which may be added a vague sociable sense that among people whose challenge to the curiosity was mainly not irresistible we kept quite to ourselves. We were on the footing of old friends who still had in regard to each other discoveries to make. We knew each other’s nature but didn’t know each other’s experience; so that when Mrs. Pallant related to me what she had been “up to,” as I called it, for so many years, the former knowledge attached a hundred interpretative footnotes–as if I had been editing an author who presented difficulties–to the interesting page. There was nothing new to me in the fact that I didn’t esteem her, but there was relief in my finding that this wasn’t necessary at Homburg and that I could like her in spite of it. She struck me, in the oddest way, as both improved and degenerate; the two processes, in her nature, might have gone on together. She was battered and world-worn and, spiritually speaking, vulgarised; something fresh had rubbed off her–it even included the vivacity of her early desire to do the best thing for herself–and something rather stale had rubbed on. At the same time she betrayed a scepticism, and that was rather becoming, for it had quenched the eagerness of her prime, the mercenary principle I had so suffered from. She had grown weary and detached, and since she affected me as more impressed with the evil of the world than with the good, this was a gain; in other words her accretion of indifference, if not of cynicism, showed a softer surface than that of her old ambitions. Furthermore I had to recognise that her devotion to her daughter was a kind of religion; she had done the very best possible for Linda.