“It was very lucky for me,” said Horace.  “I am delighted to be here.  The hotel seems to be very empty,” he added.  “I have seen nobody this morning except one little girl.”

“But no, the hotel is almost full—­people are gone to mass, perhaps, or are in bed, or are breakfasting.  It is still early.”

“That little girl,” said Horace—­“does she belong to the house?”

“You mean the little girl who ran against me as I came up to you just now?  No, the proprietaire of the hotel has but one daughter, Mademoiselle Cecile, a most amiable person.  But I know that child—­her father is one of the habitues of the hotel.  She is much to be pitied, poor little one!”

“Why?” asked Graham.

“Because her father—­ah! bon jour, Madame—­excuse me, Monsieur, but I go to pay my respects to Madame la Comtesse!” cried the Belgian, as an elderly red-faced lady, with fuzzy sandy hair, wearing a dingy, many-flounced lilac barege gown, came towards them along the gravel path.

“At last we see you back, my dear Monsieur!” she cried—­“ah! how many regrets your absence has caused!—­of what an insupportable ennui have we not been the victims!  But you are looking better than when you left us; your journey has done you good; it is plain that you have not suffered from absence.”

“Alas!  Madame,” cries the other, “you little know!  And how, for my part, can I venture to believe in regrets that have left no traces?  Madame is looking more charming, more blooming——­”

Horace waited to hear no more; he left the pair standing and complimenting each other on the sunny pathway, and wandered away under the shade of the big trees, crossed the little stream and the white dusty road beyond, and began to ascend the hills.

“What an ugly old woman!” thought the lad.  “She and my friend seem to be great allies; she must be at least ten years older than he is, and he talks to her as if she were a pretty girl; but she is a Countess apparently, and I suppose that counts for something.  Oh! what a jolly country!”

He strode along whistling, with his hands in his pockets, feeling as if he had the world before him to explore, and in the happiest of moods.  Such a mood was not rare with Horace Graham in these youthful days, when, by force of a good health, and good spirits, and a large capacity for fresh genuine enjoyment, he was apt to find life pleasant enough on the whole, though for him it lacked several of the things that go to make up the ordinary ideal of human happiness.  He was not rich; he had no particular expectations, and but few family ties, for his parents had both died when he was very young, and except an aunt who had brought him up, and a married sister several years older than himself, he had no near relations in the world.  He was simply a medical student, with nothing to look forward to but pushing his own way, and making his own path in life as best he could.