"Of course I should like to see her, Ned."

"You do not leave until evening," Lynde said, reflecting. "I think I can
manage a little dinner for to-morrow. Now let us take a breath of fresh
air. I know the queerest old nook, in the Rue de Chantpoulet, where the
Bavarian beer is excellent and all the company smoke the most enormous
porcelain pipes. Haven't I hit one of your weaknesses?"

"You have hit a brace!"




VII

THE DENHAMS


When Edward Lynde returned to the hotel that night, after parting with
Flemming at the head of a crooked, gable-hung street leading to the
Schweizerhof, the young man regretted that he had said anything on the
subject of the Denhams, or rather, that he had spoken of the painful
likeness which had haunted him so persistently. The friends had spent
the gayest of evenings together at a small green-topped table in one
corner of the smoky cafe. Over their beer and cheese they had chatted of
old days at boarding-school and college, and this contact with the
large, healthy nature of Flemming, which threw off depression as
sunshine dissipates mist, had sent Lynde's vapors flying. Nothing was
changed in the circumstances that had distressed him, yet some way a
load had removed itself from his bosom. He was sorry he had mentioned