excursions--to Petit and Grand Sacconnex, to the Villa Tronchin, to
Pregny and Mornex. These were days which Lynde marked with a red letter.
At the end of the month, however, he was in the same state of
distressing indecision relative to Miss Denham. On one point he required
no light--he was deeply interested in her, so deeply, indeed, that it
had become a question affecting all his future, whether or not she was
the person he had encountered on his horseback journey three years
before. If she was--

But Edward Lynde had put the question out of his thought that night as
he walked home from the cafe. His two bars of opera music lasted him to
the hotel steps. Though it was late--a great bell somewhere, striking
two, sent its rich reverberation across the lake while he was unlocking
his chamber door--Lynde seated himself at a table and wrote his note to
the Denhams.

Flemming had promised to come and take coffee with him early the next
morning, that is to say at nine o'clock. Before Flemming arrived,
Lynde's invitation had been despatched and accepted. He was re-reading
Miss Denham's few lines of acceptance when he heard his friend, at the
other end of the hall, approaching with great strides.

"The thousandth part of a minute late!" cried Flemming, throwing open
the door. "There's no excuse for me. When a man lives in a city where
they manufacture a hundred thousand watches a year--that's one watch and
a quarter every five minutes day and night--it's a moral duty to be
punctual. Ned, you look like a prize pink this morning." "I have had
such a sleep! Besides, I've just gone through the excitement of laying
out the menu for our dinner. Good heavens, I forgot the flowers! We'll
go and get them after breakfast. There's your coffee. Cream, old man? I