“There are others besides?”

“Besides Emile, there is a German and an Italian and a Swiss.”

“It is a Company?”

“A Company of schoolmasters!  Companies of all kinds are forming.  Colleges are Companies.  And they have their collegians.  Our aim is at pupils; we have no ambition for any title higher than School and Schoolmaster; it is not a Company.”

So, like Nature parading her skeleton to youthful adorers of her face, he insisted on reducing to hideous material wreck the fair illusion, which had once arrayed him in alluring promise.

She explained; “I said, America.  You would be among Protestants in America.”

“Catholics and Protestants are both welcome to us, according to our scheme.  And Germans, French, English, Americans, Italians, if they will come; Spaniards and Portuguese, and Scandinavians, Russians as well.  And Jews; Mahommedans too, if only they will come!  The more mixed, the more it hits our object.”

“You have not stated where on the Continent it is to be.”

“The spot fixed on is in Switzerland.”

“You will have scenery.”

“I hold to that, as an influence.”

A cool vision of the Bernese Alps encircled the young schoolmaster; and she said, “It would influence girls; I dare say.”

“A harder matter with boys, of course—­at first.  We think we may make it serve.”

“And where is the spot?  Is that fixed on?”

“Fifteen miles from Berne, on elevated land, neighbouring a water, not quite to be called a lake, unless in an auctioneer’s advertisement.”

“I am glad of the lake.  I could not look on a country home where there was no swimming.  You will be head of the school.”

“There must be a head.”

“Is the school likely to be established soon?”

He fell into her dead tone:  “Money is required for establishments.  I have a Reversion coming some day; I don’t dabble in post obits.”

He waited for farther questions.  They were at an end.

“You have your work to do, Mr. Weyburn.”

Saying that, she bowed an implied apology for having kept him from it, and rose.  She bowed again as she passed through the doorway, in acknowledgment of his politeness.

Here; then, was the end of the story of Browny and Matey.  Such was his thought under the truncheon-stroke of their colloquy.  Lines of Browny’s letters were fiery waving ribands about him, while the coldly gracious bow of the Lady wrote Finis.

The gulf between the two writings remained unsounded.  It gave a heave to the old passion; but stirred no new one; he had himself in hand now, and he shut himself up when the questions bred of amazement buzzed and threatened to storm.  After all, what is not curious in this world?  The curious thing would be if curious things should fail to happen.  Men have been saying it since they began to count and turn corners.  And let us hold off from speculating when there is or but seems a shadow of unholiness over that mole-like business.  There shall be no questions; and as to feelings, the same.  They, if petted for a moment beneath the shadow, corrupt our blood.  Weyburn was a man to have them by the throat at the birth.