But Paul was not destined to remain wholly uninterrupted. As the other travellers descended from the carriage and formed a little knot upon the platform, the Comtesse de Boistelle, now occupied with a betufted poodle frisking at the end of a leash, strolled by him. As she passed Paul she dropped a jewelled reticule, which he promptly recovered for her, offering it with a grave face and a murmured "_Permettez moi, Madame_." The Comtesse gently breathed a thousand thanks, allowing her carefully gloved hand to brush Paul's arm. "Monsieur is wearied with the journey, perhaps?" she said in a low voice. And her eyes added more than solicitude. Paul did not deny it. Instead, he raised his green Alpine hat formally and turned impassively to meet his man, who had by then stowed away the boxes in the Waiting _fiacre_. In the group of Paul's late companions stood the American girl who had sat facing him all the way from Paris. He was no sooner out of earshot than-- "Did you see, Mamma?" she whispered to the matron beside her. "See what, Daisy?" "That French creature--she tried to talk to my big Englishman, but he snubbed her. What a fine chap he must be! I knew he had a title, and I'm just dying to meet him. Do you suppose he'll stay at our hotel? If he does, I'll find somebody who knows all about him. Now I understand why so many American girls marry titled Englishmen. If they're all as nice as this one, I don't blame them, do you?" "Hush, child, hush!" her mother reproved. "How can you run on so about a total stranger?" But the girl merely smiled softly to herself in answer, as she watched Paul's straight back receding down the platform. Overwhelmed with a rush of memories, Paul climbed into the carriage. It was a fine afternoon, but he did not see the giant mountains rearing their heads for him as proudly in the sunshine as ever they had held them since the world was new. For Paul just now was lost in the infinite stretches of the past, those immeasurable fields through which the young wander blithely, all unconscious of aught but the beautiful flowers so ruthlessly trampled on, the luscious fruits so wantonly plucked, the limpid streams drunk from so greedily, and the cool shades in which to sink into untroubled sleep. Ah! if there were no awakening! If one were always young! The _fiacre_ stopped; and soon Paul found himself in the hall of the hotel, surrounded by officious porters. The _maitre d'hotel_ himself, a white-haired Swiss, pushed through them and greeted him, for was not Sir Paul an old and distinguished guest, who never failed to honour him with his patronage each year? Himself, he showed Paul to the same suite he always occupied, and with zealous care conferred with milord over the momentous question of dinner, a matter not to be lightly discussed.