"You would not marry her!"

Lynde made no reply.

The night had settled down upon Geneva while the friends were talking.
The room was so dark they could not distinguish each other; but Flemming
was conscious of a pale, set face turned towards him in the obscurity,
in the same way that he was conscious of the forlorn whiteness of Mont
Blanc looming up out yonder, unseen. It was dark in the chamber, but the
streets were gay now with the life of a midsummer night. Interminable
lines of lamps twinkled on the bridges and along the quays; the windows
of the cafes on the opposite bank of the Rhone were brilliant with gas
jets; boats, bearing merry cargoes to and from the lake, passed up and
down the river; the street running under the hotel balcony was crowded
with loungers, and a band was playing in the English Garden. From time
to time a strain of music floated up to the window where the two men
were sitting. Neither had spoken for some minutes, when Lynde asked his
friend where he was staying.

"At the Schweizerhof," replied Flemming. "I always take the hotel
nearest the station. Few Americans go there, I fancy. It is wonderfully
and fearfully Swiss. I was strolling in here to look through the
register for some American autographs when I ran against you."

"You had better bring your traps over here."

"It would not be worth while. I am booked for Paris to-morrow night.
Ned--come with me!"

"I can't, Flemming; I have agreed to go to Chamouni with the Denhams."