This curiously intimate, and yet impersonal conversation with one who was not only a stranger, but also a foreigner, made her realise how little we men and women really know of one another.

How small was her knowledge, for instance, of Bill Chester--though, to be sure, of him there was perhaps nothing to know.

How really little also she knew of Anna Wolsky! They had become friends, and yet Anna had never confided to her any intimate or secret thing about herself.

Why, she did not even know Anna's home address! Sylvia felt that there was now a link which hardly anything could break between herself and this Frenchman, whom she had never seen till a week ago.

Even if they never met again after to-day, she would never forget that he had allowed her to see into the core of his sad, embittered heart.