Although they had passed through a ceremony, the conviction had never taken root in her that she had been married to Chiltern.  The tie that had united her to him had not been sacred, though it had been no less binding; more so, in fact.  That tie would have become a shackle.  Her perception of this, after his death, had led her to instruct her attorney to send back to his relatives all but a small income from his estate, enough for her to live on during her lifetime.  There had been some trouble about this matter; Mrs. Grainger, in particular, had surprised her in making objections, and had finally written a letter which Honora received with a feeling akin to gratitude.  Whether her own action had softened this lady’s feelings, she never understood; she had cherished the letter for its unexpectedly charitable expressions.  Chiltern’s family had at last agreed to accept the estate on the condition that the income mentioned should be tripled.  And to this Honora had consented.  Money had less value than ever in her eyes.

She lived here in Paris in what may be called a certain peace, made no demands upon the world, and had no expectations from it.  She was now in half mourning, and intended to remain so.  Her isolation was of her own choice, if a stronger expression be not used.  She was by no means an enforced outcast.  And she was even aware that a certain sympathy for her had grown up amongst her former friends which had spread to the colony of her compatriots in Paris; in whose numbers there were some, by no means unrecognized, who had defied the conventions more than she.  Hugh Chiltern’s reputation, and the general knowledge of his career, had no doubt aided to increase this sympathy, but the dignity of her conduct since his death was at the foundation of it.  Sometimes, on her walks and drives, she saw people bowing to her, and recognized friends or acquaintances of what seemed to her like a former existence.

Such had been her life in Paris until a certain day in early September, a month before this chapter opens.  It was afternoon, and she was sitting in the balcony cutting a volume of memoirs when she heard the rattle of a cab on the cobbles below, and peered curiously over the edge of the railing.  Although still half a block away, the national characteristics of the passenger were sufficiently apparent.  He was an American—­of that she was sure.  And many Americans did not stray into that quarter.  The length of his legs, for one thing, betrayed him:  he found the seat of the fiacre too low, and had crossed one knee over the other.  Other and less easily definable attributes he did not lack.  And as he leaned against the faded blue cushions regarding with interest the buildings he passed, he seemed, like an ambassador, to convert the cab in which he rode into United States territory.  Then she saw that it was Peter Erwin.

She drew back her head from the balcony rail, and tried to sit still and to think, but she was trembling as one stricken with a chill.  The cab stopped; and presently, after an interval, his card was handed her.  She rose, and stood for a moment with her hand against the wall before she went into the salon.  None of the questions she had asked herself were answered.  Was she glad to see him? and what would be his attitude towards her?  When she beheld him standing before her she had strength only to pronounce his name.