“Mr. Lynde has just come from Chamouni,” said Mr. Denham, answering the doctor’s mute interrogation.  “It seems that Ruth is ill.”

Dr. Pendegrast glanced at Lynde and turned to Mr. Denham again.

“I imagine it is only a cold,” Mr. Denham continued.  “She was caught in a rain-storm on the mountain and got very wet.  Mrs. Denham is of course worried about her, and Mr. Lynde has been kind enough to come all the way to Paris for us.”

“That was very kind in him.”

Dr. Pendegrast drew a chair up to the table and began questioning Lynde.  Beyond satisfying such of the doctor’s inquiries as he could, Lynde did not speak during the meal.  He managed to swallow a cup of black coffee, which revived him; but he was unable to eat a mouthful.  The intelligence he had brought so occupied his companions that the young man’s very noticeable agitation and constraint escaped them.  In a few minutes Mr. Denham rose from his seat and begged the two gentlemen to finish their breakfast at leisure, while he went to consult the time-table at the bureau of the hotel.

“The doctor can give you a genuine Havana,” he remarked to Lynde.  “I will join you shortly in the smoking-room.”

While Dr. Pendegrast silently drank his coffee, Lynde pieced his scattered thoughts together.  What course should he pursue?  Should he take the doctor into his confidence, or should he let himself drift?  How could the doctor help him in the circumstances?  Ruth had been insane.  What could do away with that dreadful fact, the revelation of which now appalled him as if he had never suspected it.  Ruth, Ruth—­the very name was significant of calamity!  Flemming’s words rang in his ears:  “You would not marry her!” He had not replied to Flemming that night when the case was merely supposititious.  But now—­it seemed to Lynde that he had never loved Ruth until this moment.  The knowledge of her misfortune had added to his love that great pity of which he had spoken to his friend.  But could he marry her?  He did not dare put the question squarely, for he dared not confess to himself that he could not give her up.  This, then, was the key to Mrs. Denham’s cold rejection of his suit; it explained, also, Ruth’s unwillingness to have him speak to her of his love.  How poignant must have been her anguish that day on Montanvert if she cared for him!  She loved him—­how could he doubt it?—­but she had accepted the hopelessness of the position.  In his own mind he had accused her of coquetry in their walk at the cascade of Nant d’Arpenaz.  He saw through it all now; the scales had fallen from his eyes.  She was hiding her misery under a smooth face, as women will.  A sudden reflection sent a chill over Lynde; what if she had recognized him that first day at dinner in Geneva and had been playing a part all the while!  Then she was the most subtile actress that ever lived, and the leading lady of the Theatre Francais might indeed go and take lessons of