unnatural a course?"

For a moment she said nothing, only looking at me. Then at last: "I told
him the truth."

"The truth?"

"Take him away--take him away!" she broke out. "That's why I got rid of
Linda, to tell you you mustn't stay--you must leave Stresa to-morrow.
This time it's you who must do it. I can't fly from you again--it costs
too much!" And she smiled strangely.

"Don't be afraid; don't be afraid. We'll break camp again to-morrow--ah
me! But I want to go myself," I added. I took her hand in farewell, but
spoke again while I held it. "The way you put it, about Linda, was very
bad?"

"It was horrible."

I turned away--I felt indeed that I couldn't stay. She kept me from
going to the hotel, as I might meet Linda coming back, which I was far
from wishing to do, and showed me another way into the road. Then she
turned round to meet her daughter and spend the rest of the morning
there with her, spend it before the bright blue lake and the snowy
crests of the Alps. When I reached Stresa again I found my young man had
gone off to Milan--to see the cathedral, the servant said--leaving a
message for me to the effect that, as he shouldn't be back for a day or
two, though there were numerous trains, he had taken a few clothes. The
next day I received telegram-notice that he had determined to go on to
Venice and begged I would forward the rest of his luggage. "Please don't