“No: they’ve gone shopping. I’m meeting them at Prunier’s for lunch. Ann said she might come by to see you later on.”
“Before lunch?”
“Ace,” said Starwick. “Look,” he said again, in his casual, mannered tone, “I don’t suppose you’d care to come to lunch with us?”
“Thanks,” Eugene answered stiffly, “but I can’t. I’ve got another engagement.”
Starwick’s face flushed crimson with the agonizing shyness and embarrassment which the effort cost him. He leaned upon his cane and looked out of the window as he spoke.
“Then, look,” he said, “Elinor asks to be remembered to you.” He was silent a moment, and then continued with painful difficulty: “We’re all going to the Louvre after lunch: I want to see the Cimabue once more before we leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” Starwick said. “—Look!” he spoke carefully, looking out of the window, “we’re leaving the Louvre at four o’clock…. I thought… if you were going to be over that way…. I think Elinor would like to see you before she goes…. We’ll be there at the main entrance.” The anguish which the effort had cost him was apparent: he kept looking away out of the window, leaning on his cane, and for a moment his ruddy face was contorted by the old, bestial grimace of inarticulate pain and grief which the other had noticed the first time they had met, in Cambridge, years before. Then Starwick, without glancing at Eugene, turned towards the door. For a moment he stood, back turned, idly tapping with his cane against the wall.
“It would be nice if you could meet us there. If not—”
He turned, and for the last time in life the two young men looked squarely at one another, and each let the other see, without evasion or constraint, the image of his soul. Henceforth, each might glimpse from time to time some shadow-flicker of the other’s life, the destiny of each would curiously be interwoven through twinings of dark chance and tragic circumstance, but they would never see each other face to face again.
Now, looking steadily at him before he spoke, and with the deep conviction of his spirit, the true image of his life, apparent in his face, his eyes, his tone and manner, Starwick said:
“If I don’t see you again, good-bye, Eugene.” He was silent for a moment and, the colour flaming in his face from the depth and earnestness of his feeling,
