“And you’re going to write?”

“Write?” said Lewis.  “No, I’m not going to write.  I’m just going.”  For a moment they were silent, then he said, “There’s something about hearing of people what were kind to you that makes you feel awfully lonely.”

Lady Derl reached out and took his hand.  Their hands lay together on his knee.  The drive came to an end, and they had said nothing more.  As they stood under the light of the outer hall Helene turned to Lewis.

“When are you going?”

“To-morrow.”

She held up her lips to him.

“Kiss me good-by, Boy.”

He kissed her, and for a moment gripped her wrists.

“Helene,” he said, “you’ve been awfully good to me, too.  I—­I don’t forget.”

“You don’t forget,” repeated Lady Derl.  “That’s why I kissed you.  Don’t be hard on your little pal when you find her.  Remember, you’ve gone a long way alone.”

As Lewis strode away rapidly toward the flat, the fragrance of Helene clung to him.  It clung to him so long that he forgot Vi—­forgot even to leave a note for her explaining his sudden departure.  When he reached Santos, three weeks later, it didn’t seem worth while to cable.

As Lewis stepped out of the station at San Paulo, he felt himself in a dream.  He crossed the street into the public gardens and looked back.  He had never seen a station like that.  It was beautiful.  It had the spirit of a cathedral raised by some pagan as a shrine to the commercial age.  Had the railroad bred a dreamer?

Several motor-cars for hire lined the curb.  Lewis stepped up to one of the drivers.

“How did they come to build that?” he asked in Portuguese, with a nod toward the station.

The driver shrugged his shoulders.

“Too much money,” he said.  “The charter limits them to twenty-five per cent, profits.  They had such a surplus, they told the architect he could go as high as he liked.  He went pretty high.”  The driver winked at his own joke, but did not smile.

“I want you by the hour,” said Lewis.  “Do you know Mrs. Leighton’s house—­Street of the Consolation?”

The driver shook his head.

“There’s no such house,” he said.

“Well, you know the Street of the Consolation?  Drive there.  Drive slowly.”

On the way Lewis stared, unbelieving, at the things he saw.  Gone were the low, thick-walled buildings that memory had prepared him for; gone the funny little street-cars drawn by galloping, jack-rabbit mules.  In their stead were high, imposing fronts, with shallow doorways and heavy American electric trams.

The car shot out upon a mighty viaduct.  Lewis leaned out and looked down.  Here was something that he could remember—­the valley that split the city in two, and up and down the sides of which he had often toiled as a boy.  Suddenly they were across, and a monster building blotted all else from his sight.  He looked up at the massive pile.  “What is it?” he asked.