He rang the bell.  Sylvia did not think it worth while to argue that Chayne’s coming was a surprise to her as much as to her father.  She crossed the garden toward her friend.  But she walked slowly and still more slowly.  Her memories had flown back to the evening when they had bidden each other good-by on the little platform in front of the Chalet de Lognan.  Not in this way had she then planned that they should meet again, nor in such company.  The smile had faded from her lips, the light of gladness had gone from her eyes.  Barstow and Walter Hine were moving toward the house.  It mortified her exceedingly that her friend should find her amongst such companions.  She almost wished that he had not found her out at all.  And so she welcomed him with a great restraint.

“It was kind of you to come,” she said.  “How did you know I was here?”

“I called at your house in London.  The caretaker gave me the address,” he replied.  He took her hand and, holding it, looked with the careful scrutiny of a lover into her face.

“You have needed those memories of your one day to fall back upon,” he said, regretfully.  “Already you have needed them.  I am very sorry.”

Sylvia did not deny the implication of the words that “troubles” had come.  She turned to him, grateful that he should so clearly have remembered what she had said upon that day.

“Thank you,” she answered, gently.  “My father would like to know you.  I wrote to you that I had come to live with him.”

“Yes.”

“You were surprised?” she asked.

“No,” he answered, quietly.  “You came to some important decision on the very top of the Aiguille d’Argentiere.  That I knew at the time, for I watched you.  When I got your letter, I understood what the decision was.”

To leave Chamonix—­to break completely with her life—­it was just to that decision she would naturally have come just on that spot during that one sunlit hour.  So much his own love of the mountains taught him.  But Sylvia was surprised at his insight; and what with that and the proof that their day together had remained vividly in his thoughts, she caught back something of his comradeship.  As they crossed the lawn to the house her embarrassment diminished.  She drew comfort, besides, from the thought that whatever her friend might think of Captain Barstow and Walter Hine, her father at all events would impress him, even as she had been impressed.  Chayne would see at once that here was a man head and shoulders above his companions, finer in quality, different in speech.

But that afternoon her humiliation was to be complete.  Her father had no fancy for the intrusion of Captain Chayne into his quiet and sequestered house.  The flush of color on his daughter’s face, the leap of light into her eyes, had warned him.  He had no wish to lose his daughter.  Chayne, too, might be inconveniently watchful.  Garratt Skinner desired no spy upon his little plans.  Consequently he set himself to play the host with an offensive geniality which was calculated to disgust a man with any taste for good manners.  He spoke in a voice which Sylvia did not know, so coarse it was in quality, so boisterous and effusive; and he paraded Walter Hine and Captain Barstow with the pride of a man exhibiting his dearest friends.