The presence of her professed rivals of various
nationalities in the Promenade could not restore it either. The
Promenade in its cold, prim languor was the very negation of
desire. She was afraid. She foresaw ruin for herself in this London,
inclement, misty and inscrutable.
And then she noticed a man looking at her, and she was herself again
and the universe was itself again. She had a sensation of warmth and
heavenly reassurance, just as though she had drunk an anisette or
a creme de menthe. Her features took on an innocent expression; the
characteristic puckering of the brows denoted not discontent, but a
gentle concern for the whole world and also virginal curiosity. The
man passed her. She did not stir. Presently he emerged afresh out of
the moving knots of promenaders and discreetly approached her. She
did not smile, but her eyes lighted with a faint amiable
benevolence--scarcely perceptible, doubtful, deniable even, but
enough. The man stopped. She at once gave a frank, kind smile, which
changed all her face. He raised his hat an inch or so. She liked men
to raise their hats. Clearly he was a gentleman of means, though in
morning dress. His cigar had a very fine aroma. She classed him in
half a second and was happy.
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