the daughter of Chauncey Randolph, one of
your millionaires. Look out! Was that a stone you stumbled over?"

"Yes. I gave my ankle a twist. It's all right now. I daresay my sister
knows your friend."

"I must ask Molly Winston, when I write, or see her. But you've never
told me your sister's name, except that she's called 'Princess.' If I
say Miss Laurence----"

"There are so many Laurences. Did you--ever mention in your letters
to--your friends that you were--travelling with anyone?"

"I haven't written to them since I knew your name, but before that, I
told them there was a boy whom I had met by accident and chummed up
with, just before Aosta. I think I rather spread myself on a
description of our meeting."

"You _didn't_ do that! How horrid of you!"

"Oh, I put it right afterwards, I assure you, in another letter. I
told them that in spite of the bad beginning, we'd become no end of
pals. That we travelled together, stopped at the same hotels,
and--what's the matter?"

"Nothing. My ankle does hurt a little, after all. Shall you go on in
your friends' motor car if you meet them?" He looked up at me very
earnestly as he spoke.

"At one time I thought of doing so, if we ran across each other. But
now that I've got you----"

"Who knows how long we may have each other? Either one of us may
change his plans--suddenly. You mustn't count on me, Lord Lane."

"Look here," I said crossly, "do speak out. Don't hint things. Do you
mean me to understand that you wish to stop at Aix, indefinitely, and
play out your little comedy of flirtation to its close?"

"I don't know what I intend to do; now, less than ever," answered the
Boy in a very low voice, the shadow of his long lashes on his cheeks.

I was too much hurt to question him further, and we pursued our way in
silence, along the lake side, and then up the billowy lower slopes of
the Semnoz. We had showers of rain in the sunshine; and the long, thin
spears of crystal glittered like spun glass, until dim clouds spread
over the bright patches of blue, and the world grew mistily
grey-green.

We had planned long ago, before the spell of the Contessa fell upon
us, to make the journey we were taking now, by way of the Semnoz, the
so-called Rigi of this Alpine Savoy, which is neither wholly French
nor wholly Italian. But we had abandoned the idea since, in a fine
frenzy to keep our promise of rejoining her with all speed lest she
perish alone in the icy disapproval