I came out to wander at large in the world when I was nineteen,
almost directly after I left school. It seems that her late
brother was in the same school a couple of years before me. She
wanted me to tell her what I did at first when I came out here;
what other men found to do when they came out--where they went,
what was likely to happen to them--as if I could guess and foretell
from my experience the fates of men who come out here with a
hundred different projects, for hundreds of different reasons--for
no reason but restlessness--who come, and go, and disappear!
Preposterous. She seemed to want to hear their histories. I told
her that most of them were not worth telling."

The distinguished journalist leaning on his elbow, his head resting
against the knuckles of his left hand, listened with great
attention, but gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard,
pausing, seemed to expect.

"You know something," the latter said brusquely. The all-knowing
man moved his head slightly and said, "Yes. But go on."

"It's just this. There is no more to it. I found myself talking
to her of my adventures, of my early days. It couldn't possibly
have interested her. Really," he cried, "this is most
extraordinary. Those people have something on their minds. We sat
in the light of the window, and her father prowled about the
terrace, with his hands behind his back and his head drooping. The
white-haired lady came to the dining-room window twice--to look at
us I am certain. The other guests began to go away--and still we
sat there. Apparently these people are staying with the Dunsters.
It was old Mrs. Dunster who put an end to the thing. The father