“And you?” he asked.

“Oh, I—­well, I had thought—­but it doesn’t matter.”

“I see what you mean.  Would it be disagreeable for you if I were in the same hotel?”

“On the contrary.  But you——­”

“I know now that we shall never rub each other up the wrong way—­again.  Besides, we shan’t have the chance.  I suppose you go on somewhere else to-morrow?”

“No, I want to stop a day or two.  Some friends have asked me to tell them about the sights of the neighbourhood, and what sort of motoring roads there are near by.”

“I’m stopping, too.  So, after all, the little sailing boat and the big bark aren’t going to pass each other this night?  They are to anchor in the same harbour for a while.”

“And here’s the harbour,” said I, for we had come down from the hills into a marvellous old town of ancient towers and arches, with a background of white mountains.  Molly should have been satisfied.  I had obeyed her instructions to the letter, and I was in Aosta at last.

CHAPTER XIII

Afternoon Calls

    “If you climb to our castle’s top
     I don’t see where your eyes can stop.” 
                         —­ROBERT BROWNING.

Our hotel had a big loggia, as large as a good-sized room, and we dined in it, with a gorgeous stage setting.  The mountains floated in mid-sky, pearly pale, and magical under the rising moon.  The little circle of light from our pink-shaded candles on the table (I say our, because Boy and I dined together) gave to the picture a bizarre effect, which French artists love to put on canvas; a blur of gold-and-rose artificial light, blending with the silver-green radiance of a full moon.

I don’t know what we had to eat, except that there were trout from the river, and luscious strawberries and cream; but I know that the dinner seemed perfect, and that the head waiter, a delightful person, brought us champagne, with a long-handled saucepan wrapped in an immaculate napkin, to do duty as an ice-pail.  I wondered why I had not come long ago to this place, named in honour of Augustus Caesar, and why everybody else did not come.  The ex-Brat was in the game frame of mind.  We talked of more things than are dreamed of in philosophy—­(other people’s philosophy)—­and there was not a book which was a dear friend of mine that was not a friend of this strange child’s.

We sat until the moon was high, and the candles low.  I felt curiously happy and excited, a mood no doubt due in part to the climate of Aosta, in part to the discovery of a congenial spirit, where I had least expected to find one.

Last night, we had been, at best, on terms of armed neutrality; to-night we were friends, and would continue friends, though we parted to-morrow.  But parting was not what we thought of at the moment.  On the contrary, half to our surprise, we found ourselves planning to see Aosta in each other’s company.