Here Rowland always paused, in perfect sincerity, to measure afresh his possible claim to the young girl’s regard.  What might he call it?  It had been more than civility and yet it had been less than devotion.  It had spoken of a desire to serve, but it had said nothing of a hope of reward.  Nevertheless, Rowland’s fancy hovered about the idea that it was recompensable, and his reflections ended in a reverie which perhaps did not define it, but at least, on each occasion, added a little to its volume.  Since Miss Garland had asked him as a sort of favor to herself to come also to Switzerland, he thought it possible she might let him know whether he seemed to have effectively served her.  The days passed without her doing so, and at last Rowland walked away to an isolated eminence some five miles from the inn and murmured to the silent rocks that she was ungrateful.  Listening nature seemed not to contradict him, so that, on the morrow, he asked the young girl, with an infinitesimal touch of irony, whether it struck her that his deflection from his Florentine plan had been attended with brilliant results.

“Why, we are delighted that you are with us!” she answered.

He was anything but satisfied with this; it seemed to imply that she had forgotten that she had solemnly asked him to come.  He reminded her of her request, and recalled the place and time.  “That evening on the terrace, late, after Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed, and Roderick being absent.”

She perfectly remembered, but the memory seemed to trouble her.  “I am afraid your kindness has been a great charge upon you,” she said.  “You wanted very much to do something else.”

“I wanted above all things to oblige you, and I made no sacrifice.  But if I had made an immense one, it would be more than made up to me by any assurance that I have helped Roderick into a better mood.”

She was silent a moment, and then, “Why do you ask me?” she said.  “You are able to judge quite as well as I.”

Rowland blushed; he desired to justify himself in the most veracious manner.  “The truth is,” he said, “that I am afraid I care only in the second place for Roderick’s holding up his head.  What I care for in the first place is your happiness.”

“I don’t know why that should be,” she answered.  “I have certainly done nothing to make you so much my friend.  If you were to tell me you intended to leave us to-morrow, I am afraid that I should not venture to ask you to stay.  But whether you go or stay, let us not talk of Roderick!”

“But that,” said Rowland, “does n’t answer my question.  Is he better?”

“No!” she said, and turned away.

He was careful not to tell her that he intended to leave them.  One day, shortly after this, as the two young men sat at the inn-door watching the sunset, which on that evening was very striking and lurid, Rowland made an attempt to sound his companion’s present sentiment touching Christina Light.  “I wonder where she is,” he said, “and what sort of a life she is leading her prince.”