rushed to the hotel register. The only entry among the new arrivals
which pointed to the two ladies was that of Mrs. William Denham and
Niece, United States. You can understand, Flemming, how I was seized
with a desire to know those two women. I had come to Geneva for a day or
so; but I resolved to stay here a month if they stayed, or to leave the
next hour if they left. In short, I meant to follow them discreetly; it
was an occupation for me. They remained. In the course of a week I knew
the Denhams to speak to them when we met of a morning in the English
Garden. A fortnight later it seemed to me that I had known them half my
life. They had come across the previous November, they had wintered in
Italy, and were going to Chamouni some time in July, where Mr. Denham
was to join them; then they were to make an extended tour of
Switzerland, accompanied by an old friend of the family, a professor, or
a doctor, or something, who was in the south of France for his health.
Miss Denham--her name is Ruth--is an orphan, and was educated mostly
over here. When the Denhams are at home they live somewhere in the
neighborhood of Orange, New Jersey. There are all the simple,
exasperating facts. I can add nothing to them. If I were to tell you how
this girl has perplexed and distressed me, by seeming to be and seeming
not to be that other person--how my doubts and hopes have risen and
fallen from day to day, even from hour to hour--it would be as
uninteresting to you as a barometrical record. But this is certain: when
Miss Denham and I part at Chamouni, as I suppose we shall, this world
will have come to an end so far as I am concerned."

"The world doesn't come to an end that way--when one is twenty-six. Does
she like you, Ned?"

"How can I say? She does not dislike me. We have seen very much of each
other. We have been together some portion of each day for more than a