I had not dared address myself to Molly in the other camp, but evidently all communication between the lines was not to be broken off.  The wind must have carried my words to her ear, for she bent forward, leaning her arm on the back of our seat.

“Did you say you were miserable last night?” she inquired with flattering eagerness.

“Yes.  Awfully miserable.”

“Poor Lord Lane!  I haven’t understood yet exactly why you suddenly gave up your walking tour, and got the idea of going on by rail.  I thought from your letters you were having such a good time, that we could hardly bribe you to desert—­your party and come with us, even at Grenoble.”

“My party deserted me, and that was the end of my ‘good time,’” I replied, charmed with Molly’s conception of the role of a “quiet kitten” whose existence was to be forgotten.  As if any man could ever forget hers!

“What, your nice Joseph and his Finois?” she inquired.

“When I speak of ‘my party’ I refer particularly to the boy I wrote you about,” I returned, far from averse to being drawn out on the subject of my troubles, though I had resolved, were I not intimately questioned, to let them prey upon my damask cheek.

“Oh, yes, that wonderful American boy.  Did he keep right on being wonderful all the time, or did he turn out disappointing in the end?”

“Disappointing!” I echoed.  “No; rather the other way round.  He was always surprising me with new qualities.  I never saw anyone like him.”

“Ah, perhaps that’s because you never knew other American boys.  I dare say if I’d met him I shouldn’t have found him so remarkable.”

“Yes, you would,” I protested.  “There could be no two opinions about it.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“Extraordinarily.  Such eyes as his are wasted on a boy—­or would be on any other boy.  If he’d been a girl, he would have been one for a man to fall head over ears in love with.”

“You’re enthusiastic!  Hasn’t he got any sisters?”

“He has one, who is supposed to be like him.  I was promised—­or partly promised—­to meet her in Monte Carlo, at the end of our journey, where the Boy expected her to join him.”

“Oh, has he been called away by her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I fancied that might have been why he left you.”

“I don’t know what his reason was, but I have faith enough in the little chap to be sure it was a good one.”

“Sure you didn’t bore each other?”

“If you had ever seen that boy, you’d know that the word ‘bore’ would perish in his presence like a microbe in hot water.  As for me—­I don’t believe I bored him.  He did say once that we would part when we came to the ‘turnstile,’ meaning the point of mutual boredom, but I can’t believe the turnstile was in his sight.  I think that his resolution to go was sudden and unexpected.”

“He must have been an interesting boy, and you ought to be grateful to Fate for sending him your way because apparently he gave you no time for brooding on the past.”