I suppose I must have led her to my table, for at this juncture we found ourselves there.

“Will Monsieur have dinner served?” breathed a voice out of the hazy unrealities that shut us two in alone together.

“Dinner by-and-bye,” I heard myself murmuring, as one brushes away a buzzing insect.  “Yes,—­dinner by-and-bye—­for four.”

“Man,” the Girl began; and then was silent.

“Little Pal,” I answered, and she visibly gathered courage.

“You know what a great blow I had, and how it made me very ill,” she went on.  “It was Molly Randolph who persuaded me that a complete change, and living in the open air—­the open air of other countries where no one knew me or my troubles—­would cure my heart, and mind, too.”

(Oh, what a Molly!  What might she not do for this sad, bad, mad old world, if she would but set up for a specialist in the mind and heart line!)

“She didn’t help me make the plan that—­I finally carried out.  You see, she had to be married, and whisked off to England, when she had half finished my cure.  One night when I was lying awake, the thought came to me—­of a thing I might do.  It fascinated me.  It wouldn’t let me get away from it.  At first, it was only a fantastic dream; but it took shape, and reality, till it was able to plead its own cause and argue its own advantages.  A girl is handicapped.  She can’t have adventures; she must have a chaperon.  A boy is free.  Besides—­I wanted to get away from men.  As a boy, I could take Molly’s advice, and travel, and be a regular gipsy if I liked.

“My hair had been cut short when I was ill.  That made me feel as if the thing really was to be.  One day I sent out and bought some—­some clothes, ready made, and put them on.  That settled it, for I was sure no one would ever know me, or the truth.  One thing suggested another.  I thought of travelling with a caravan—­then I changed my mind to donkeys, and that led to Innocentina.  I’d gone out with her up into the mountains, donkey-back, every day from Mentone two years ago.  She had talked to me about Aosta.  Her mother’s people came from there.  Always since, I had wanted to go.  I wrote her.  I began to make preparations for a long journey.”

“You got the bag!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, that bag!  I should have died if any English-speaking person had found it, and read my diary, which was to be used—­partly—­as notes for a book—­if I should ever write it.  I would have offered even a bigger reward, if you had let me.  But I must go on:—­they will come—­Molly and Jack.  I went out to Lucerne, where Innocentina joined me with the donkeys; but it wasn’t till we were away in the wilds that—­that the Boy appeared.  I didn’t mean to visit any very big towns afterwards, for it wasn’t civilisation I wanted; but—­you came into the story, and I did lots of things I hadn’t meant to do—­because of you, Man.”

“And I did lots of things I hadn’t meant to do—­because of you, Boy.”