“I shall never know how I got through the endless courses of that dinner; it was an empty pantomime on my part.  As soon as it was over I rushed to the hotel register.  The only entry among the new arrivals which pointed to the two ladies was that of Mrs. William Denham and Niece, United States.  You can understand, Flemming, how I was seized with a desire to know those two women.  I had come to Geneva for a day or so; but I resolved to stay here a month if they stayed, or to leave the next hour if they left.  In short, I meant to follow them discreetly; it was an occupation for me.  They remained.  In the course of a week I knew the Denhams to speak to them when we met of a morning in the English Garden.  A fortnight later it seemed to me that I had known them half my life.  They had come across the previous November, they had wintered in Italy, and were going to Chamouni some time in July, where Mr. Denham was to join them; then they were to make an extended tour of Switzerland, accompanied by an old friend of the family, a professor, or a doctor, or something, who was in the south of France for his health.  Miss Denham—­her name is Ruth—­is an orphan, and was educated mostly over here.  When the Denhams are at home they live somewhere in the neighborhood of Orange, New Jersey.  There are all the simple, exasperating facts.  I can add nothing to them.  If I were to tell you how this girl has perplexed and distressed me, by seeming to be and seeming not to be that other person—­how my doubts and hopes have risen and fallen from day to day, even from hour to hour—­it would be as uninteresting to you as a barometrical record.  But this is certain:  when Miss Denham and I part at Chamouni, as I suppose we shall, this world will have come to an end so far as I am concerned.”

“The world doesn’t come to an end that way—­when one is twenty-six.  Does she like you, Ned?”

“How can I say?  She does not dislike me.  We have seen very much of each other.  We have been together some portion of each day for more than a month.  But I’ve never had her a moment alone; the aunt is always present.  We are like old friends—­with a difference.”

“I see; the aunt makes the difference!  No flirting allowed on the premises.”

“Miss Denham is not a girl to flirt with; she is very self-possessed, with just a suspicion of haughtiness; personally, tall, slight, a sort of dusky Eastern beauty, with the clear warm colors of a New England September twilight—­not like the brunettes on this side, who are apt to have thick complexions, saving their presence.  I say she is not a girl to flirt with, and yet, with that sensitive-cut mouth and those deep eyes, she could do awful things in the way of tenderness if she had a mind to.  She’s a puzzle, with her dove’s innocence and her serpent’s wisdom.  All women are problems.  I suppose every married man of us goes down to his grave with his particular problem not quite solved.”