But on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark schemes by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the "grey lady" entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner, stood staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:-- "This is ridiculous! We are wasting time! We three are the only really interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other--and we know it! Come for a walk!" And lo! in another minute we were on the high road, Kathie on one side, I on the other, gazing at her with adoring eyes, while she said briskly:-- "My name is Charmion Fane. I am quite alone. No children. Thirty-two. I don't live anywhere in particular. Just prowl round from one place to another. If there are any other dull, necessary details that you want to know, ask!--and get them over. Then we can talk!" We laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own account, and then we _did_ talk--about books, and travels, and hobbies, and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more intimate (or rather _conscious_ of our intimacy, for we were friends after the first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental outlooks. When we came in, Kathie and I faced each other in our bedroom, almost incoherent with pleasure and excitement. "_Well_! What an afternoon! My dear, isn't she--" Kathie waved her hands to express a superlative beyond the power of words. "She is!" "The most fascinating, the most interesting, the most original--" "And she likes us, too! As much as we like her. Isn't it glorious?" "She hasn't spoken to another soul. How could we have called her plain! Evelyn, did you notice that she never spoke of her husband? She wears grey and violet, so he has probably been dead for some years, but she never referred to him in the slightest possible way." "Would it be likely, Kathie, in our very first talk?" "Yes!" declared Kathie sturdily. "Not intentionally, perhaps, but with ordinary people it would have slipped out. `_We_ went to Italy. My husband liked this or that.' She never advanced even as far as the `we'. She must have been dreadfully, dreadfully fond of him!" I wondered! The death of a beloved husband or wife is a devastating blow; but when the memory is beautiful, time softens it into a hallowed sweetness. It is the bitter sorrow which refuses to be healed, which fills the heart with a ceaseless unrest. Not even to Kathie would I express my doubts, but the conviction weighed upon me that the cloud which hung over Charmion Fane was the remembrance of unhappiness rather than joy! For the next fortnight the greater part of our time was spent in Charmion's company; generally we were a party of three, but in every day there came a precious hour or so when I had her alone, and hugged the secret confidence that the _tete-a-tete_ was as welcome to her as to myself.