dge, or
gazing at the ruins of Roman ramparts. Or, we lost our way in
searching for the amphitheatre, and found ourselves suddenly skipping
over centuries into the Middle Ages, represented by the mysterious
Tour Bramafam, the Tour des Prisons, or the Tour du Lepreux, round
which Xavier Maistre wrote his pathetic dialogue. Then, there was the
cathedral with its extraordinary painted facade, like a great coloured
picture-book; and the tall cross, straddling a spring in a paved
street, put up in thanksgiving by the Aostans when they joyfully saw
Calvin's back for the last time.

We spent all day in sightseeing, and had another moonlight evening on
the loggia. We were great pals now, Boy and I. I had never met anyone
in the least like him. At one moment he was a human boy, almost a
child; at another his brain leaped beyond mine, and he became a poet
or a philosopher; again he was an elfin sprite, a creature for whom
Puck was the one thinkable name. There was a single thing only, about
which you could always be sure. He would never be twice the same.

Still, though we were friends, "Boy" and "Man" we remained. He kept
his name a secret, and he had forbidden me to mention mine. Nor had he
spoken of his route or destination, after Aosta. As to this I was
curious, for I knew now that it would be a wrench to part with the
strange little being whose ears I had tingled to box three days (or
was it three years?) ago. Already he had done me good; and though I
had hardly reached the point of confessing as much to myself, as a
plain matter of fact I would not have exchanged his quaint
companionship for that of my lost love. How she would have hated this
idyllic Arcadia! How _triste_ she would have been; how weary after a
day's tour among relics of past ages; and how much she would have
preferred Bond Street to the Arch of Augustus, or the park to our snow
mountains and green valley! Even Davos she would have found
intolerable had it not been for the tobogganing, the dances and the
theatricals, in all of which she had played a leading part. Deep down
in the darkest corner of my soul, I now knew that I would not have
fallen in love with Helen Blantock had I first met her in Aosta.

The Boy and I agreed that our head waiter was one of the nicest men we
had ever met, and when he pledged his personal honour that a day's
wandering among neighbouring castles would be "very repaying," we
determined to bolt the five he most recommended in o