It was on Armistice Day, and I was on the balcony of the Crillon.
Underneath a procession of war cripples was going by; in the square the
crowd was separating to make way for an informal parade—first the
mounted hussars, in helmet and full regalia once more, then “Papa”
Joffre, generals and the cabinet, a vast formless jubilation.
There was a woman in front of me, heavily veiled and dressed in black.
Now and then she lifted her veil to put a handkerchief to her eyes, and
so at last I knew her. It was Peggy. But a changed and older Peggy. She
was thinner than ever and quite colourless and she was, something which
must have been rare with her, quite alone. I touched her on the
shoulder, and she gave a little cry and threw herself at me.
“My dear, my dear!” she said. “I have wanted you so.”