"Miss James and I prefer to drive and wait for you at Sils Maria," quietly said Miss Ford to Lucio and Lilian.

The girl remained impassive; Lucio Sabini bowed, in token of consent. The carriage which an hour ago had brought all four to the hill of the Maloja and had waited for them there—as after having traversed the highway and the hill paths they reached on foot the top of the great wall of a peak which divides the Grissons from the Val Bregaglia, to the lofty gallery of rocks covered with moss and yellow marguerites, whence the gaze is directed down below towards Italy—and which was to bring them on the return road, first to Sils Maria and then to St. Moritz, was drawn up at a few paces from the Kursaal Maloja. Suddenly turning from that strange gallery whence, now and then exchanging a fleeting glance, Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple had both gazed at the road to Italy, and while they drew near the vast lake which stretches from the Maloja to Sils, Lucio had proposed crossing the lake by boat as far as Sils Maria, while the empty carriage should go on and wait for them there. Lilian, without speaking, blushed one of those blushes of joy that mounted in a wave of emotion from her neck right to the roots of her fair hair. Miss Ford, after having exchanged three or four words in English with her companion, had quietly announced her desire to go in the carriage with her, leaving the boat trip to Lilian and Lucio.

While he accompanied the two old maids to the carriage, he was once again astonished in the back of his mind at the ever-increasing freedom with which Miss May Ford, who was Lilian's guardian and friend, often, very often, left the girl alone with him. Now and then, with his Italian mind accustomed through heredity and tradition to keep women, and especially girls, under a rigorous surveillance; accustomed to consider woman in general as a prisoner who strives constantly to escape and around whom iron chains must be multiplied, a strange impression struck him when he discovered that Miss Ford entrusted Lilian Temple to him and Lilian trusted him, when their love-making had now become so marked that in no way was it possible to conceal it, and he very nearly felt irritated at Miss Ford's desertion of Lilian and very nearly sneered at the perfect confidence Lilian had in him. A flood of evil thoughts was poisoning him. But afterwards he thought of the admirable rectitude of the English character, which, incapable of failing, does not believe that another can fail; he thought of the profound respect that all Englishmen have for women, above all for their sweethearts and fiancÉes; he thought of the respect that all the English have, and have taught the Americans to have, for the liberty of others; and he felt vulgar sentiments to be dissolved in his spirit, and ugly thoughts and mean considerations. He experienced instead the secret emotion of a man who feels himself esteemed and loved. Moreover, a singular tenderness invaded him, as he guessed the truth; that Miss Ford, aware of their love-making, wished to provide them, in perfect good faith and generosity, with a means of getting a better understanding, in a solitude that had for witnesses the sky, the mountains, the lakes and meadows.

"At Sils Maria, then," he said, with a gracious bow as he closed the door, giving Miss Ford a grateful look.

"In front of the HÔtel Edelweiss," she replied, giving him and Lilian a friendly nod.

They watched the carriage depart and slowly proceeded towards the lake.

"Miss Ford is very fond of you, Lilian," he said, in a tender voice.

"Yes," she answered, without further remark.

"And I believe you are very fond of her."

"Yes," she replied.

He restrained a little movement of impatience. The imperturbability, the silence, and the sober replies of Lilian Temple at certain moments irritated him; the composure of the beautiful face seemed indifference to him; the scarcity and the moderation of her words seemed to him coldness and her silence lack of feeling. Then he would speak to her in a sharp voice and say violent and sarcastic things as if to startle her. An expression of wonderment and pain on Lilian's face would calm him and make him realise the truth, that he was in the presence of a different soul, a creature of another race and another land, and a profoundly different heart.

"At any rate you will like to sail on the beautiful lake? Or does nothing matter to you, Lilian?" he said to her, with a mocking smile and in an irritated tone.

"Of course it matters to me," she murmured, looking at him with her dear, blue eyes, rather sorrowfully.

"Forgive me," he said at once, softening again. "I am very exacting, I know, but sometimes you are so English, dear child."

"I thought," she said, with a mischievous little smile, "that English women were not displeasing to you."

"I adore them!" he exclaimed, in a sudden transport.

They sat in the stern of the rather large boat, which was rowed by two men. The boats were Italian and came from the Lake of Como, being transported up there every year to the lakes of Sils and St. Moritz, climbing from Chiavenna on the large carts that ascend there every day at the beginning of the season, and are re-transported below in the middle of September. The rowers were Italians—Comaschi. A white awning protected the boat from the sun. For some time while the Comaschi rowed, cleaving the quiet waters, Lilian and Lucio were silent, letting themselves go to the train of their slow passage across the lake and the sequence of their intimate thoughts. Lucio especially liked to be quiet beside Lilian. When he was with her—and in the week after the ball at the "Kulm" he had seen her every day for two or three hours—a profound sense of sweetness kept him silent: the Italian words which should have told of his flame remained suspended on his lips; the impetuousness of his love became placated in the presence of that pure young beauty and in the complete sentimental dedication which he recognised in Lilian. He was gladly silent. Moreover, an intimate terror of saying too much consumed him, of expressing too much, of showing too much, what manner of thing was the sudden transport of love that agitated him. He feared by pronouncing definite words to make Lilian understand and himself understand, alas, how he was seized and conquered beyond caprice, beyond flirting and love-making: he feared lest she should be deeply discouraged, and he himself feared to be discouraged by a revelation that he preferred to leave latent and concealed. Instead an infinite sweetness came upon him in Lilian's company, in solitude and in silence. Her presence filled him with a tenderness that surpassed every other feeling: he understood in those moments how he would have liked to have invoked the passing of life thus beside her, and how she carried in her hands and heart and eyes, in every act of her person, the truest and most lovable gifts of existence. The boat proceeded quietly across the limpid waters shining in the sun, and both continued to dream their soft and quiet dream. Lilian gently clasped a bunch of Alpine flowers which she placed upon her knees, on her white cambric dress.

"Lilian, have you seen the Val Bregaglia, and amidst the light, white clouds Italy, Lilian?" he asked her softly, as if in a dream, placing a particular stress of sweetness as he pronounced and repeated her name.

"I have seen it," she replied softly.

"Do you love Italy, Lilian?"

"Of course," she replied.

Nothing more. But he felt how much that soul and heart were his, even in the modesty and moderation of her words, even in her reserved attitude and pure actions.

"There is another spot where my beautiful country can be seen," he added; "a spot loftier and more austere."

"Where?"

"At the Bernina pass, Lilian."

"Is it far?"

"Two hours and a half by carriage, perhaps three from St. Moritz. I think you have never been up there."

"No, never."

"Will you go there with me?"

"Yes," she replied at once.

"We will go, we will go," he exclaimed, a little disturbed with joy. "Up there there is a solitary height: one must go there on foot after leaving the carriage. But one sees the Val di Poschiaro—beautiful Italy!"

"We will go," she again consented.

A boat came towards them, also propelled by two rowers, proceeding, however, very slowly. A woman was within, alone, with a delicate, pale face, a rosy mouth slightly livid, and two deep blue, velvety eyes. She was Else von Landau, who was enjoying in silence and solitude the air, the light, and the trees, whatever was healthy and pure and refreshing. With her gloved hands crossed over her knees, and her veil raised above her hat, she appeared collected and serene. With calm eyes she followed the boat with the two lovers.

"She is ill, poor thing!" murmured Lucio Sabini.

"But she will get better," added Lilian, "if she remains here for the winter."

"How do you know that?"

"The doctors say so, people say so. One gets better here in the winter. How beautiful it must be here beneath the snow," she murmured, as if to herself.

"Would you come here? Would you pass a winter here, Lilian? You are not ill, Lilian!"

"Of course I am not ill," she said slowly. "But I should prefer to be here rather than in England. There is sun here."

"But our country is Italy, the land of sun!" exclaimed Lucio Sabini.

"That is true," she said, looking at him, expecting another speech.

But he added nothing more. After a moment he resumed.

"Aren't you happy, Lilian, in England?" And he scrutinised her face keenly.

"Who told you that? My father is so good!" she exclaimed, with unwonted vivacity.

"You love him, and he loves you?"

"Yes; I love him, and naturally he loves me."

"And your stepmother: is she good?"

She was silent for a moment, seeing that he knew her family history, but she quickly resumed:

"My stepmother is good, too."

"But you cannot understand her, I believe."

"That is not her fault," she replied, with some vehemence.

"Then it is yours?"

"Not that either. It is no one's fault. It is so."

Lucio was immensely struck by her directness of character and generosity. He knew how unhappy Lilian Temple was in her family and how the father, too weak to defend and protect her, preferred to give her plenty of money and a trusty companion in Miss Ford, to let her travel as long as possible.

"You have a very beautiful soul, Lilian," he said, with deep emphasis.

She made no reply; her eyes were veiled with tears.

"You deserve to be happy, dear."

"I am happy," she said, looking at him and smiling amidst her tears.

He grew pale with love, as their row towards Sils Maria, where the two old maids were waiting for them, ended in a gentle movement, that almost seemed a gliding upon the waters. Both more moved than at any other time, more touched in the deepest essence of their souls, by that beautiful hour, by the landscape of peace and grandeur, by the words they had pronounced, by those they had not said, they experienced in every glance they exchanged, in every rare accent and gesture, an emotion they strove in vain to calm. Seated beside her, his head a little bent towards her, Lucio Sabini said nothing, but everything within him expressed the immense sympathy which bound him to the dear creature, so blond, so rosy, in her white dress beneath the white veil of her white hat: everything within him showed that the fascination of that beauty, of that candour, of that purity had subjugated him. Seated beside him, a figure of indefinable grace, there was in her eyes and smile that abandonment of fresh hearts, that abandonment which is so touching, because it is that of a heart which gives everything blindly for life and death. They pursued their gentle voyage to the green peninsula of Sils, and only a few sentences of the deepest tenderness now and then interrupted it with alternate silences.

"You will always dress in white, Lilian?"

"If it pleases you."

And then:

"You are only twenty, dear?"

"Yes, twenty. And you are thirty-five, you told me?"

"So old, Lilian!"

"It doesn't matter: it doesn't matter!"

Again:

"Shall I see you this evening, Lilian?"

"Yes, of course."

"And to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, too."

"Always, then, Lilian? Always?"

"Always."

Theirs was a sweetness even too intense, and a languor even more overwhelming; while Lilian's eyes of periwinkle-blue were far-away, and a little trembling Lucio's lips. A dull grating on the ground and a rush of water where the boat had grounded at Sils: rising, they again repeated the grand word, as if in a dream.

"Always! Always!"

They went through the meadows of thick grass, along the narrow canal that unites, as it cuts a long strip of earth, the large lake of Sils with the smaller lake of Silvaplana; they walked like somnambulists immersed in a dream of fervid youth and palpitating exhilaration; they went hand in hand with rapid steps to join the two ladies who were waiting for them up there beyond the bridge; towards the large, green wood before the charming, bright houses of Sils Maria, houses all adorned with galleries, balconies, and little windows. They went with steps ever more rapid, because the very pale sun was setting in too clear a sky, and for the first time they observed with distracted and wandering eyes the pallor of sun and sky.

Miss May Ford and Miss Clara James were seated in the outside, covered vestibule of the HÔtel Edelweiss which was all adorned with flowers; they were seated at a table and were taking tea placidly and waiting. Two men were with them; one was Massimo Granata, the Italian, one of the oldest lovers of the mountains and sojourners in the Engadine, with his face of an old child, that is rickety and ill, where above the yellowishness of the rugged skin, above the scanty, colourless beard and bony cheek-bones, only the eyes had a ray of divine goodness, while his awkward body, badly dressed in a coarse grey mountain suit, abandoned itself on a seat as if disjointed, while his knotted, shrunken hands were sorting bunches of fresh edelweiss on a table and making nosegays of them; the other was Paul LÉon, an Italian by origin, whose family must have been called Leone at Perugia, whence he came, but which had been changed into LÉon after living thirty or forty years in France—Paul LÉon, the French poet, much discussed and much admired for his lofty genius, his pride, and his wit, now of a cutting irony, now benevolent. At Sils Maria they found Miss May Ford, with a tender and sensible soul beneath a cold appearance, and Miss Clara James, the daughter of England's greatest spiritualist, an illustrious philosopher and poet who had died three years previously, but who was not dead to his daughter, since she spoke with him every night or believed she spoke with him, and she had remained an old maid so as to be able to have communication with the world of spirits; Massimo Granata, who every day made long walks, had climbed the most impenetrable paths and scrambled up the steepest rocks, solely through this invincible love of his of the mountains and his loving quest of mountain flowers; and Paul LÉon, the friend of Miss James, who despised the follies of the sojourners at St. Moritz Bad and scoffed at the cosmopolitans of the "Palace" and the "Kulm," and who in his poetic pride lodged in a little inn at Sils Maria and every day went to watch the little window where Friedrich Nietzsche had worked for fourteen springs and summers in a very modest furnished house, and in a very modest room of that house, Paul LÉon who loved the country and that district where he had come for years, every year withdrawing from the advance of the ever-invading crowd from district to district in the search for solitude, who loved Massimo Granata as an ideal type of moral beauty, and admired Miss James for her noble, daughterly hallucination.

The circle grew larger when Lilian and Lucio arrived; the greetings were sympathetic, for all knew and understood. May Ford offered tea, as was natural, to Lucio, who to please her accepted, and to Lilian, who refused sweetly. Massimo Granata offered Lilian a large nosegay of edelweiss, gathered two hours ago not far from the glacier of Fexthal, gathered with his fleshless, rickety hands that had such soft gestures, as he touched the flowers gathered after a four hours' walk to "Edelweisshalde." Lilian pressed and immersed her rather too heated face in those delicate, glacial flowers, like stars, as if to seek there a refuge for her ardour. And scoffing, gracious, efficient Paul LÉon, who had been Lucio Sabini's friend for years, incited him to fence in a dialogue and a diatribe against all the people who come to live a life À outrance in a land of simplicity and peace, against the snobs who nowadays penetrated everywhere, who climbed the virgin heights and disturbed the sky and earth and waters of the Engadine. Paul LÉon, a little mocking, a little serious, took Lucio Sabini, since he was fashionable, a born aristocrat, and because of the surroundings in which he lived, and as an annual frequenter of all the great cosmopolitan meeting-places, for a representative of all that world Écoeurant, dÉgÔutant, oui, dÉgÔutant—il n'y a pas d'autre mot. To his amazement Lucio Sabini was silent and smiled, without defending that society of fictitious and real millionaires, of real Princes and Serene Highnesses, whose kingdoms are as large as kerchiefs, of false beautiful women, of false rich women—everything false, everything artificial, everything sham up there in a land of truth and purity. Lucio, as if absorbed, made no replies. At a certain point when Paul LÉon cursed, with a sarcastic and refined curse, the lie of those people, whose impetuous and atrocious motto was, Evviva La Vita, Lucio started and replied simply:

"Vous avez raison, mon ami."

Paul LÉon gave a fleeting glance at Lilian Temple and smiled.