“What, your friends the Winstons?” he broke in, with one of the sudden flaming blushes that made him seem so young.

“Yes, why not?”

“They are coming to join you?”

“I told you they might turn up at any moment, and——­”

“And now the moment has arrived.  Then it has also arrived for us to say good-bye.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Oh, don’t think me ungrateful—­or ungracious.  I’m neither.  But, in any case, we must sooner or later have reached the parting of the ways.  You are bound to Monte Carlo.  I have—­the vaguest plans.”

“I thought you said that your sister might be going there with friends.”

“But my sister and I are—­very different persons.”

“Surely you would wish to meet her there?”

“It’s rather undecided at present, anyhow,” returned the Boy, his eyes bent on the ground as we walked, our steps less sprightly now.  “There’s only one thing settled, which is, that I can’t go with you up Mont Revard to meet—­people.”

“There isn’t the slightest chance of my meeting anyone there, friend Diogenes,” I began.  “I was only waiting for you to give me time to explain, since you’re inclined to be obtuse, the difference between sending a telegram to yourself, and——­”

“Oh, I see.  You aren’t going to meet a soul on Mont Revard?”

“Not even an astral body—­by appointment.  And the plan was made for your deliverance.  Rather hard lines that you should kick at it.”

He looked up, laughing and merry once more.  “I won’t kick again.  Man, you are—­well, you’re different from other men.  Yes, from every other man I’ve ever met.”

“Am I to take that as praise?”

He nodded, his big eyes sending blue rays into mine.

“Thanks.  Best man you ever met?”

Another nod, and more colour in his cheeks.

“Good enough to be introduced to your sister?”

“Good enough—­even for that.”

“What if I should fall in love with her?”

The Boy straightened his shoulders, after a slight start of surprise, and seemed to pull himself together.  For a moment he was silent, as we walked on under the close-growing plane trees which lined the long, straight road to the Grand Port.  Then at last he said, “You wouldn’t.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Because—­she isn’t—­your style.”

“You don’t know my ‘style’ of girl.”

“Oh, yes, I do.  Don’t you remember a talk we had, the first day we were friends?  We told each other a lot of things.  I can see that girl; the girl who—­who——­”

“Jilted me,” I supplied.  “Don’t hesitate to call a spade a spade.”

“A lovely, angelic-looking creature, typically English; golden hair; skin like cream and roses.”

“The type has palled upon me,” said I.  “I know now that Molly Winston—­my friend’s wife—­was right.  I never really loved that girl.  It was her popularity and my own vanity that I was in love with.”