'To-morrow?' I urged. 'In
the morning?'
"'In the morning it would be difficult.'
"'The afternoon?'
"'In the afternoon it would be impossible,'
"'Then the evening--at the same hour?'
"'Perhaps,' she faltered--'if I am free.'
"'My number,' I told her, 'is five-four-two, one-nine. Can you write it
now?'
"'I have written it.'
"'Please repeat, so that there may be no mistake.'
"'Five-four-two, one-nine. Correct?'
"'Correct. I am grateful.'
"'Good-night.'
"'Good-night. Sleep well.'
"You may suppose that on the morrow I remembered the incident with a
smile, that I ridiculed the emotion it had roused in me? You would be
wrong. I recalled it more and more curiously: I found myself looking
forward to the appointment with an eagerness that was astonishing. We
had talked for about twenty minutes, hidden from each other--half
Paris, perhaps, dividing us; I had nothing more tangible to expect this
evening. Yet I experienced all the sensations of a man who waits for an
interview, for an embrace. What did it mean? I was bewildered. The
possibility of love at first sight I understood; but might the spirit
also recognise an affinity by telephone?
"There is a phrase in feuilletons that had always irritated me--'To his
impatience it seemed that the clock had stopped.' It had always struck
me as absurd. Since that evening I have never condemned the phrase, for
honestly, I thought more than once that the clock had stopped.
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