It was from him, from Paul Creston, the voice had proceeded: he was talking with the lady of some precious object in the window.
Stransom had no sooner recognised him than the old woman turned away; but just with this growth of opportunity came a felt strangeness that stayed him in the very act of laying his hand on his friend's arm.

It lasted but the instant, only that space sufficed for the flash of a wild question.

Was _not_ Mrs.Creston dead ?--the ambiguity met him there in the short drop of her husband's voice, the drop conjugal, if it ever was, and in the way the two figures leaned to each other.

Creston, making a step to look at something else, came nearer, glanced at him, started and exclaimed--behaviour the effect of which was at first only to leave Stransom staring, staring back across the months at the different face, the wholly other face, the poor man had shown him last, the blurred ravaged mask bent over the open grave by which they had stood together.
That son of affliction wasn't in mourning now; he detached his arm from his companion's to grasp the hand of the older friend.

He coloured as well as smiled in the strong light of the shop when Stransom raised a tentative hat to the lady.