say what precisely he had lost that so greatly mattered; unless indeed it were so simple a thing as his high spirits.
One morning in June, as he descended the slope of the Rue des Martyrs, he saw approaching a figure that he remembered. He glanced quickly round, for the thought of meeting Mr Bunner again was unacceptable. For some time he had recognized that his wound was healing under the spell of creative work; he thought less often of the woman he loved, and with less pain. He would not have the memory of those three days reopened.
But the straight and narrow thoroughfare offered no refuge, and the American saw him almost at once.
His unforced geniality made Trent ashamed, for he had liked the man. They sat long over a meal, and Mr Bunner talked. Trent listened to him, now that he was in for it, with genuine pleasure, now and then contributing a question or remark. Besides liking his companion, he enjoyed his conversation, with its unending verbal surprises, for its own sake.
Mr Bunner was, it appeared, resident in Paris as the chief Continental agent of the Manderson
