Serena had gone very silent since her last remark and Cynthia, in spite of the beauty of the hour, was beginning to feel sleepy and finding it difficult to stifle her yawns as she watched the shadow silhouettes of people passing, dark against the café lights. It was like a scene in a play. Some of the characters she already recognized from her week in the town. There was good old Madame Brassard, who kept the pastry shop down by the river, leaning plumply on the arm of her thin, gray little husband, and both in spotless black as befitted a gala Saturday night. And there was the guide from the Carcassonne walls, limping on his cane, his face as blankly sweet as a chromo portrait. It had been, Cynthia knew, almost entirely shot away at Amiens, and repaired again by a surgeon who had almost, but not quite repeated the charm of the original. And there was the boy from the other terrace, slouching slowly, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched disconsolately. Some day, perhaps tomorrow morning, she would certainly cross the street and start talking to him. ... Aunt Anna gave a faint exclamation and leaned forward, blinking against the lights, “Oh, isn’t that ... but no, of course not, how foolish of me!” She gave a nervous little laugh. “I ... excuse me, I thought I recognized someone from home,” she said, and began to tell Cynthia all about the nice man in the shop in the Upper Town who was keeping a lovely silk shawl till she came in to look at it again in the morning. Serena, sitting with her back to the light, was still silent. Cynthia suddenly jumped to her feet and exclaimed. “Come on, let’s go for a walk up to the walls. It’s a wonderful night to see them, and it’s perfectly safe, there will be lots of people along the road.” Miss Comstock glanced swiftly down the street, then reached out to pat her hand. “You Yankee girls are so energetic,” she drawled. “I’m sure Serena would much prefer to sit right here and listen to the beautiful music.” But it seemed Serena wouldn’t. She, too, was on her feet. “We’ll just go a little way, Aunt Anna,” she said, “and we won’t be gone long. Come on, Yankee gal,” and she linked her arm through Cynthia’s. She laughed and talked animatedly for the next block or two but when they came out of the new town and faced the walls of the ancient fortress, all green and dark gold under the moon, with crickets shrilling from the banks of the little stream and the lights of the houses behind them, she was silent again. “Let’s not go any farther, here’s a splendid place to sit,” suggested Cynthia, who thought the other might be rather tired, and had found a seat on the handrail of the little stone bridge. One could hear far off music and voices sounding faintly, and contrary to expectations the road was almost deserted. Perhaps the old town had little romance or mystery for those who had always lived within sight of its walls. But she must make conversation; this wasn’t being a good guest.