christine knew piccadilly, leicester square, regent street, a bit of oxford street, the green park, hyde park, victoria station, charing cross. beyond these, london, measureless as the future and the past, surrounded her with the unknown. but she had not been afraid, because of her conviction that men were much the same everywhere, and that she had power over them. she did not exercise this power consciously; she had merely to exist and it exercised itself. for her this power was the mystical central fact of the universe. now, however, as she stood in the promenade, it seemed to her that something uncanny had happened to the universe. surely it had shifted from its pivot! her basic conviction trembled. men were not the same everywhere, and her power over them was a delusion. englishmen were incomprehensible; they were not human; they were apart. the memory of the hundreds of englishmen who had yielded to her power in paris (for she had specialised in travelling englishmen) could not re-establish her conviction as to the sameness of men. 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 crême 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. he spoke to her in french, with a slight, unmistakable english accent, but very good, easy, conversational french—french french. she responded almost ecstatically:
"ah, you speak french!"
she was too excited to play the usual comedy, so flattering to most englishmen, of pretending that she thought from his speech that he was a frenchman. the french so well spoken from a man's mouth in london most marvellously enheartened her and encouraged her in the perilous enterprise of her career. she was candidly grateful to him for speaking french.
he said after a moment:
"you have not at all a fatigued air, but would it not be preferable to sit down?"
a man of the world! he could phrase his politeness. ah! there were none like an englishman of the world. frenchmen, delightfully courteous up to a point, were unsatisfactory past that point. frenchmen of the south were detestable, and she hated them.
"you have not been in london long?" said the man, leading her away to the lounge.
she observed then that, despite his national phlegm, he was in a state of rather intense excitation. luck! enormous luck! and also an augury for the future! she was professing in london for the first time in her life; she had not been in the promenade for five minutes; and lo! the ideal admirer. for he was not young. what a fine omen for her profound mysticism and superstitiousness!
