chatted of old days at boarding-school and college, and this contact with the large, healthy nature of Flemming, which threw off depression as sunshine dissipates mist, had sent Lynde’s vapors flying.  Nothing was changed in the circumstances that had distressed him, yet some way a load had removed itself from his bosom.  He was sorry he had mentioned that dark business at all.  As he threaded the deserted streets—­it was long after midnight—­he planned a dinner to be given in his rooms the next day, and formulated a note of invitation to the ladies, which he would write when he got back to the hotel, and have in readiness for early delivery in the morning.

Lynde was in one of those lightsome moods which, in that varying month, had not unfrequently followed a day of doubt and restless despondency.  As he turned into the Quai des Bergues he actually hummed a bar or two of opera.  He had not done that before in six weeks.  They had been weeks of inconceivable torment and pleasure to Lynde.

He had left home while still afflicted by David Lynde’s death.  Since the uncle’s ill-advised marriage the intercourse between them, as the reader knows, had all but ceased; they had met only once, and then as if to bid each other farewell; but the ties had been very close, after all.  In the weeks immediately following his guardian’s death, the young man, occupied with settling the estate, of which he was one of the executors, scarcely realized his loss; but when he returned to Rivermouth a heavy sense of loneliness came over him.  The crowded, happy firesides to which he was free seemed to reproach him for his lack of kinship; he stood alone in the world; there was no more reason why he should stay in one place than in another.  His connection with the bank, unnecessary now from a money point of view, grew irksome; the quietude of the town oppressed him; he determined to cut adrift from all and go abroad.  An educated American with no deeper sorrow than Lynde’s cannot travel through Europe, for the first time at least, with indifference.  Three months in Germany and France began in Lynde a cure which was completed by a winter in Southern Italy.  He had regained his former elasticity of spirits and was taking life with a relish, when he went to Geneva; there he fell in with the Denhams in the manner he described to Flemming.  An habitual shyness, and perhaps a doubt of Flemming’s sympathetic capacity, had prevented Lynde from giving his friend more than an outline of the situation.  In his statement Lynde had omitted several matters which may properly be set down here.

That first day at the table d’hote and the next day, when he was able more deliberately to study the young woman, Edward Lynde had made no question to himself as to her being the same person he had seen in so different and so pathetic surroundings.  It was unmistakably the same.  He had even had a vague apprehension she might recognize him, and had been greatly relieved to observe that there was no