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“I’m very glad. You can tell him that if you like,” said Linda Pallant.

I wondered at her. “If I tell him he’ll come at once.”

“Then don’t tell him; I don’t want him to come. He stayed too long last night,” she went on, “and kept me out on the water till I don’t know what o’clock. That sort of thing isn’t done here, you know, and every one was shocked when we came back–or rather, you see, when we didn’t! I begged him to bring me in, but he wouldn’t. When we did return–I almost had to take the oars myself–I felt as if every one had been sitting up to time us, to stare at us. It was awfully awkward.”

These words much impressed me; and as I have treated the reader to most of the reflexions–some of them perhaps rather morbid–in which I indulged on the subject of this young lady and her mother, I may as well complete the record and let him know that I now wondered whether Linda– candid and accomplished maiden–entertained the graceful thought of strengthening her hold of Archie by attempting to prove he had “compromised” her. “Ah no doubt that was the reason he had a bad conscience last evening!” I made answer. “When he came back to Stresa he sneaked off to his room; he wouldn’t look me in the face.”

But my young lady was not to be ruffled. “Mamma was so vexed that she took him apart and gave him a scolding. And to punish ME she sent me straight to bed. She has very old-fashioned ideas–haven’t you, mamma?” she added, looking over my head at Mrs. Pallant, who had just come in behind me.

I forget how her mother met Linda’s appeal; Louisa stood there with two letters, sealed and addressed, in her hand. She greeted me gaily and then asked her daughter if she were possessed of postage-stamps. Linda consulted a well-worn little pocket-book and confessed herself destitute; whereupon her mother gave her the letters with the request that she would go into the hotel, buy the proper stamps at the office, carefully affix them and put the letters into the box. She was to pay for the stamps, not have them put on the bill–a preference for which Mrs. Pallant gave reasons. I had bought some at Stresa that morning and was on the point of offering them when, apparently having guessed my intention, the elder lady silenced me with a look. Linda announced without reserve that she hadn’t money and Louisa then fumbled for a franc. When she had found and bestowed it the girl kissed her before going off with the letters.

“Darling mother, you haven’t any too many of them, have you?” she murmured; and she gave me, sidelong, as she left us, the prettiest half- comical, half-pitiful smile.

“She’s amazing–she’s amazing,” said Mrs. Pallant as we looked at each other.

“Does she know what you’ve done?”

“She knows I’ve done something and she’s making up her mind what it is. She’ll satisfy herself in the course of the next twenty-four hours–if your nephew doesn’t come back. I think I can promise you he won’t.”

“And won’t she ask you?”

“Never!”

“Shan’t you tell her? Can you sit down together in this summer-house, this divine day, with such a dreadful thing as that between you?”

My question found my friend quite ready. “Don’t you remember what I told you about our relations–that everything was implied between us and nothing expressed? The ideas we have had in common–our perpetual worldliness, our always looking out for chances–are not the sort of thing that can be uttered conveniently between persons who like to keep up forms, as we both do: so that, always, if we’ve understood each other it has been enough. We shall understand each other now, as we’ve always done, and nothing will be changed. There has always been something between us that couldn’t be talked about.”