Often had she thought of Peter Erwin, and it is not too much to say that he had insensibly grown into an ideal.  He had come to represent to her the great thing she had missed in life, missed by feverish searching in the wrong places, digging for gold where the ground had glittered.  And, if the choice had been given her, she would have preferred his spiritual to his bodily companionship—­for a while, at least.  Some day, when she should feel sure that desire had ceased to throb, when she should have acquired an unshakable and absolute resignation, she would see him.  It is not too much to say, if her feeling be not misconstrued and stretched far beyond her own conception of it, that he was her one remaining interest in the world.  She had scanned the letters of her aunt and uncle for knowledge of his doings, and had felt her curiosity justified by a certain proprietorship that she did not define, faith in humankind, or the lack of it, usually makes itself felt through one’s comparative contemporaries.  That her uncle was a good man, for instance, had no such effect upon Honora, as the fact that Peter was a good man.  And that he had held a true course had gradually become a very vital thing to her, perhaps the most vital thing; and she could have imagined no greater personal calamity now than to have seen him inconsistent.  For there are such men, and most people have known them.  They are the men who, unconsciously, keep life sweet.

Yet she was sorry he had invaded her hiding-place.  She had not yet achieved peace, and much of the weary task would have to be done over after he was gone.

In the meantime she drifted with astounding ease into another existence.  For it was she, and not the confidential gentlemen, who showed Peter Paris:  not the careless, pleasure-loving Paris of the restaurants, but of the Cluny and the Carnavalet.  The Louvre even was not neglected, and as they entered it first she recalled with still unaccustomed laughter his reply to the proffered services of the guide.  Indeed, there was much laughter in their excursions:  his native humour sprang from the same well that held his seriousness.  She was amazed at his ability to strip a sham and leave it grotesquely naked; shams the risible aspect of which she had never observed in spite of the familiarity four years had given her.  Some of his own countrymen and countrywomen afforded him the greatest amusement in their efforts to carry off acquired European “personalities,” combinations of assumed indifference and effrontery, and an accent the like of which was never heard before.  But he was neither bitter nor crude in his criticisms.  He made her laugh, but he never made her ashamed.  His chief faculty seemed to be to give her the power to behold, with astonishing clearness, objects and truths which had lain before her eyes, and yet hidden.  And she had not thought to acquire any more truths.