In his short walks along the road before the woodland paths became available, at each new slope of snow he thought to see John come hurtling over the brow, stem-christie to a traverse, and vanish in a white flurry that sped down into the valley.
Sometimes the fair-haired French girl, Nicole, who came from Chartres, seemed to be with him, flying along with him in the same flurry of snow.
That was the most painful impression of all.
Presently as the sun grew stronger, the snow went away.
There was the sound of tinkling water everywhere, and bare grass showed where there had been white slopes.
Then flowers began to appear and his walks had a new interest.
As the snow passed his bad dreams passed with it; the green flowering fields held no memories for him.
He grew much more settled as the spring drew on.
Mrs Cavanagh helped him, too.
He had been worried and annoyed to find an English woman staying in the hotel, so far from the tourist track.
He had not come to France to speak English or to think in English.
For the first week he sedulously avoided her, together with her two children.
He did not have to meet them.
They spent a great part of their time in the salon; there were no other visitors in the hotel in between time.
He lived mostly in his bedroom or else in the estaminet, where he played innumerable games of draughts with the habitues.
Cavanagh, they told him, was an official in the League of Nations at Geneva, not more than twenty miles away as the crow flies.
He was evidently fearful of an invasion of Switzerland by the Germans, and had prudently sent his wife and children into Allied France.
They had been at Cidoton for a month; each week-end he motored across the border to visit them.
Howard saw hun the first Saturday that he was there, a sandy-haired, worried-looking man of forty-five or so.
The following week-end Howard had a short talk with him.
To the old solicitor, Cavanagh appeared to be oddly unpractical.
He was devoted to the League of Nations even in this time of war.
'A lot of people say that the League has been a failure,' he explained.
'Now, I think that is very unfair.
If you look at the record of that last twenty years you'll see a record of achievement that no other organisation can show.
Look at what the League did in the matter of the drug traffic!'
And so on.
About the war, he said: The only failure that can be laid to the account of the League is its failure to inspire the nations with faith in its ideals.
And that means propaganda.
And propaganda costs money.
If the nations had spent one-tenth of what they have spent in armaments on the League, there would have been no war.'
After half an hour of this, old Howard came to the conclusion that Mr Cavanagh was a tedious fellow.
He bore with him from a natural politeness, and because the man was evidently genuine, but he made his escape as soon as he decently could.
The extent of his sincerity was not made plain to Howard till the day he met Mrs Cavanagh in the woods, and walked a mile back to the hotel with her.
He found her a devoted echo of her man.
'Eustace would never leave the League,' she said.
'Even if the Germans were to enter Switzerland, he'd never leave Geneva.
There's still such great work to be done.'
The old man looked at her over his spectacles.
'But would the Germans let him go on doing it if they got into Switzerland?'
'Why, of course they would,' she said.
'The League is international.
I know, of course, that Germany is no longer a member of the League.
But she appreciates our non-political activities.
The League prides itself that it could function equally well in any country, or under any government.
If it could not do that, it couldn't be said to be truly international, could it?'
'No,' said Howard, 'I suppose it couldn't.'
They walked on for a few steps in silence.
'But if Geneva really were invaded by the Germans,' he said at last, 'would your husband stay there?'
'Of course.