I admitted that I had, but reminded Mrs. Lascelles that the first person I had spoken to was also the greatest gossip in the hotel.  She paid no attention to the remark, but stood looking at me again, with the look that I could never quite see to read.

“And then,” she went on, “you found out who it was, and you remembered all about me, and your worst fears were confirmed.  That must have been an interesting moment.  I wonder how you felt....  Did it never occur to you to speak plainly to anybody?”

“I wasn’t going to give you away,” I said, stolidly, though with no conscious parade of virtue.

“Yet, you see, it would have made no difference if you had!  Did you seriously think it would make much difference, Captain Clephane, to a really chivalrous young man?” I bowed my head to the well-earned taunt.  “But,” she went on, “there was no need for you to speak to Mr. Evers.  You might have spoken to me.  Why did you not do that?”

“Because I didn’t want to quarrel with you,” I answered quite honestly; “because I enjoyed your society too much myself.”

“That was very nice of you,” said Mrs. Lascelles, with a sudden although subtle return of the good-nature which had always attracted me.  “If it is sincere,” she added, as an apparent afterthought.

“I am perfectly sincere now.”

“Then what do you think I should do?” she asked me, in the soft new tone which actually flattered me with the idea that she was making up her mind to take my advice.

“Refuse this lad!”

“And then?” she almost whispered.

“And then—­”

I hesitated.  I found it hard to say what I thought, hard even upon myself.  We had been good friends.  I admired the woman cordially; her society was pleasant to me, as it always had been.  Nevertheless, we had just engaged in a duel of no friendly character; and now that we seemed of a sudden to have become friends again, it was the harder to give her the only advice which I considered compatible alike with my duty and the varied demands of the situation.  If she took it as she seemed disposed to do, the immediate loss would be mine, and I foresaw besides a much more disagreeable reckoning with Bob Evers than the one now approaching an amicable conclusion.  I should have to stay behind to face the music of his wrath alone.  Still, at the risk of appearing brutal I made my proposal in plain terms; but, to minimise that risk, I ventured to take the lady’s hand and was glad to find the familiarity permitted in the same friendly spirit in which it was indulged.

“I would have no ‘and then,’” I said, “if I were you.  I should refuse him under such circumstances that he couldn’t possibly bother you, or himself about you, again.  Now is your opportunity.”

“Is it?” she asked, a thrilling timbre in her low voice.  And I fancied there was a kindred tremor in the firm warm hand within mine.

“The best of opportunities,” I replied, “if you are not too wedded to this place, and can tear yourself away from the rest of us.” (Her hand lay loose in mine.) “Mrs. Lascelles, I should go to-morrow morning” (her hand fell away altogether), “while he is still up the Matterhorn and I shouldn’t let him know where I—­shouldn’t give him a chance of finding out—­”