might be favored with a
tete-a-tete before they started for the projected walk. Neither Bower
nor Mrs. de la Vere ever put in an appearance at that hour. Though
Americans incline to the Continental manner of living, this true
Westerner found himself a sudden convert to English methods. In a
word, he was in love, and his lady could not err. To please her he was
prepared to abjure iced water--even to drink tea.

But, as often happens, his cheery mood was destined to end in
disappointment. He lingered a whole hour in the _salle a manger_,
but Helen came not. Then he rose in a panic. What if she had
breakfasted in her room, and was already basking in the sunlit
veranda--perhaps listening to Bower's eloquence? He rushed out so
suddenly that his waiter was amazed. Really, these Americans were
incomprehensible--weird as the English. The two races dwelt far
apart, but they moved in the same erratic orbit. To the stolid German
mind they were human comets, whose comings and goings were not to be
gaged by any reasonable standard.

No, the veranda was empty--to him. Plenty of people greeted him; but
there was no Helen. Ultimately he reflected that their appointment was
for ten o'clock. He calmed down, and a pipe became obvious. He was
enjoying that supremest delight of the smoker--the first soothing
whiffs of the day's tobacco--when a servant brought him a note. The
handwriting was strange to his eyes; but a premonition told him that
it was Helen's. Somehow, he expected that she would write in a clear,
strong, legible way. He was not mistaken. She sent a friendly little
message that she was devoting the morning to work. The weather made it
impossible to go to Vicosoprano, and in any event she did not feel
equal to a long walk. "Yesterday's events," she explained, "took more
out of me than I imagined."

Well, she had been thinking of him, and that counted. He was staring
at the snow covered tennis courts, and wondering how soon the valley
would regain its summer aspect, when Stampa limped into sight round
the corner of the hotel. He stood at the foot of the broad flight of
steps, as though waiting for someone. Spencer was about to join him
for a chat, when he recollected that Bower and the guide had an
arrangement to meet in the morning.

With the memory came a queer jumble of impressions. Stampa's story,
told overnight, was a sad one; but the American was too fair minded to
affect a moral detestation of Bower because of a piec