her than a
token of friendly forgiveness.

Tony bowed over her hand in perfect mimicry of the lieutenant's manner.
'Signorina, _addio_!' He gravely raised it to his lips.

She snatched her hand away quickly and without glancing at him turned
toward the house. He let her cross half the terrace, then he called
softly--

'Signorina!'

She kept on without pausing. He took a quick step after.

'Signorina, a moment!'

She half turned.

'Well?'

'I beg of you--one little favour. There are two American ladies expected
at the Hotel du Lac and I thought--perhaps--would you mind writing me a
letter of recommendation?'

Constance turned back without a word and walked into the house.

Mr. Wilder's conversation at dinner that night was of the day's excursion
and Tony. He was elated, enthusiastic, glowing. Mountain-climbing was the
most interesting pursuit in the world; he would begin to-morrow and
exhaust the Alps. And as for Tony--his intelligence, his discretion, his
cleverness--there never had been such a guide. Constance listened
silently, her eyes on her plate. At another time it might have occurred
to her that her father's enthusiasm was excessive, but to-night she was
occupied with her thoughts, and she had no reason in the world to
suspect him of guile. She decided, however, to postpone the announcement
of Tony's dismissal; to-morrow mountain-climbing might look less
alluring.

Dinner over, Mr. Wilder, with a tired if satisfied sigh, dropped into a
chair to finish his reading of the London _Times_. He no longer skimmed
his paper lightly as in the days when papers were to be had hot at any
hour. He read it carefully, painstakingly, from the first advertisement
to the last obituary; and he laid it down in the end with a disappointed
sigh that there were not more residential properties for hire, that the
day's death list was so meagre.

Miss Hazel settled herself to her knitting. She was making a rainbow
shawl of seven colours and an intricate pattern, and she had to count her
stitches; conversation was impossible. Constance, vaguely restless,
picked up a book and laid it down, and finally sauntered out to the
terrace with no thought in the world but to see the moon rise over the
mountains.

As she approached the parapet she became aware that some one was lounging
on the water-steps smoking a cigarette. The smoker rose politely but
ventured no remark.

'Is that you, Giuseppe?' she asked in Italian.

'No, si