My question found my friend quite ready. "Don't you remember what I told you about our relations--that everything was implied between us and nothing expressed? The ideas we have had in common--our perpetual worldliness, our always looking out for chances--are not the sort of thing that can be uttered conveniently between persons who like to keep up forms, as we both do: so that, always, if we've understood each other it has been enough. We shall understand each other now, as we've always done, and nothing will be changed. There has always been something between us that couldn't be talked about." "Certainly, she's amazing--she's amazing," I repeated; "but so are you." And then I asked her what she had said to my boy. She seemed surprised. "Hasn't he told you?" "No, and he never will." "I'm glad of that," she answered simply. "But I'm not sure he won't come back. He didn't this morning, but he had already half a mind to." "That's your imagination," my companion said with her fine authority. "If you knew what I told him you'd be sure." "And you won't let me know?" "Never, dear friend." "And did he believe you?" "Time will show--but I think so." "And how did you make it plausible to him that you should take so unnatural a course?" For a moment she said nothing, only looking at me. Then at last: "I told him the truth." "The truth?" "Take him away--take him away!" she broke out. "That's why I got rid of Linda, to tell you you mustn't stay--you must leave Stresa to-morrow. This time it's you who must do it. I can't fly from you again--it costs too much!" And she smiled strangely. "Don't be afraid; don't be afraid. We'll break camp again to-morrow--ah me! But I want to go myself," I added. I took her hand in farewell, but spoke again while I held it. "The way you put it, about Linda, was very bad?" "It was horrible."