s different, was one of fright."

Giovanni smiled,

"You never told me that," said he.

The young wife looked up at him and smiled in her turn.

"Perhaps you yourself have never told me quite everything about those
moments."

Giovanni placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered in her ear:

"That is true."

She started, and then laughed at herself for starting, and Giovanni
laughed with her.

"What, what?" she cried, her face aglow, vexed but still laughing. Her
husband whispered again, in a tone of great mystery:

"That your hat was in disorder!"

"Oh, that is not true! Really not true!"

Sparkling with mirth, and at the same time trembling at the idea of the
great danger she had encountered unawares, she protested that it was
impossible; she had looked in the mirror of her _necessaire_ so many
times before reaching Hergyswyl.

Every moment of that hour passed two years before, they recalled
together jestingly; she often kissing his breast, and he her hair.
Giovanni had not waited for her at the station, where there was a crowd
of holiday-makers, but a few yards distant, on the road leading to the
hotel. He had seen her coming, tall, slender, with a tiny sprig of _Olea
fragrans_, the sign they had chosen, at her breast. He had approached
her, his head bared, and they had pressed one another's hands in
silence. He had signed to the porter, who was following with her
travelling bag, to precede them. They had followed slowly, their throats
contracted by a nameless emotion. She had been the first to murmur, in
her sweet refined voice: "_Mon ami_."

Then he had spoken in subdued tones, in broken sentences, of his
infatuation, of his love, of his ecstasy, and had not noticed when they
passed the hotel. Twice the porter called after them:

"_Monsieur! Madame! C'est ici!_" and neither had heard. Then the girl
had gone to her room smiling, but pale with fatigue, and with aching
head. Giovanni went out again to wander among the level gardens and
orchards of Hergyswyl, breathing hard like a man exhausted by excess of
feeling, blessing every stone and every leaf of this verdant corner of
a foreign land, the lake, sleeping in its bosom, the crowd of great
religious mountains; blessing God, who at his time of life had sent him
such a love. And he had returned soon, too soon, to the hotel. The only
other guests there on that May day, an old German professor and his
daughter, had gone up Mount Pilatus. There was