what I
told you about our relations--that everything was implied between us
and nothing expressed? The ideas we have had in common--our perpetual
worldliness, our always looking out for chances--are not the sort of
thing that can be uttered conveniently between persons who like to keep
up forms, as we both do: so that, always, if we've understood each other
it has been enough. We shall understand each other now, as we've always
done, and nothing will be changed. There has always been something
between us that couldn't be talked about."

"Certainly, she's amazing--she's amazing," I repeated; "but so are you."
And then I asked her what she had said to my boy.

She seemed surprised. "Hasn't he told you?"

"No, and he never will."

"I'm glad of that," she answered simply.

"But I'm not sure he won't come back. He didn't this morning, but he had
already half a mind to."

"That's your imagination," my companion said with her fine authority.
"If you knew what I told him you'd be sure."

"And you won't let me know?"

"Never, dear friend."

"And did he believe you?"

"Time will show--but I think so."

"And how did you make it plausible to him that you should take so
unnatural a course?"

For a moment she said nothing, only looking at me. Then at last: "I told
him the truth."

"The truth?"

"Take him away--take him away!" she broke out. "That's why I got rid of
Linda, to tell you you mustn't stay--you must leave Stresa to-morrow.
This time it's you who must do it. I can't fly from you again--it costs
too much!" And she smiled strangely.

"Don't be afraid; don't be afraid. We'll break camp again to-morrow--ah
me! But I want to go myself," I added. I took her hand in farewell, but
spoke again while I held it. "The way you put it, about Linda, was very
bad?"

"It was horrible."

I turned away--I felt indeed that I couldn't stay. She kept me from
going to the hotel, as I might meet Linda coming back, which I was far
from wishing to do, and showed me another way into the road. Then she
turned round to meet her daughter and spend the rest of the morning
there with her, spend it before the bright blue lake and the snowy
crests of the Alps. When I reached Stresa again I found my young man
had gone off to Milan--to see the cathedral, the servant said--leaving a
message for me to the effect that, as he shouldn't be back for a day or
two, though there were numerous trains, he had taken a few clothes. The
next day I