Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/114

other. Red lights flickered in the distant alleys, directing the late comers to their miserable heavens.

Along the Boulevard St. Michel, a man emerged from the shadows. A long raincoat enveloped him. Anna eyed him indifferently, all wrapped up in the gaudy tales of the South American. Suddenly, she felt her heart failing; there was something in his walk that left no doubt in her mind, the broad shoulders, the oval shape of his head. She leaped to her feet. "Eric!" she exclaimed spasmodically. She bounced against him, and burying her head in his shoulder, she began to cry. The Brazilian watched them curiously and then emptied the remains of his glass.

They stood speechless, wrapped in the potent language of silence. Neither of them breathed; it was as though each was afraid to move, or do anything that would break the spell of this miraculous moment. It was as if their mutual longing had conspired with time and space to bring them together again despite the decree of fate. They stood listening entranced, like bewildered children, to the new music that welled from their hearts. The melody was still new and untried, but the underlying rhythm was sure and steady.

They started walking and he stopped suddenly, overcome by a wave of jealousy. "Who was that man?" he demanded, harshly.

"Oh, he just stepped over to my table and started talking," she smiled faintly. His eyes narrowed with anger and his fists clenched. "My heavens, Eric," she exclaimed good-humoredly, "Don't you believe me?" He remained silent, his jaw protruding in suppressed anger.

"He was just a lonely South American who tried to be nice," she explained, smiling faintly.

"Yes, yes, of course," he grudged, and then his face broke