imicry of the lieutenant's manner.
"Signorina, _addio_!" He gravely raised it to his lips.

She snatched her hand away quickly and without glancing at him turned
toward the house. He let her cross half the terrace then he called
softly:

"Signorina!"

She kept on without pausing. He took a quick step after.

"Signorina, a moment!"

She half turned.

"Well?"

"I beg of you--one little favor. There are two American ladies expected
at the Hotel du Lac and I thought--perhaps--would you mind writing me a
letter of recommendation?"

Constance turned back without a word and walked into the house.

Mr. Wilder's conversation at dinner that night was of the day's
excursion and Tony. He was elated, enthusiastic, glowing.
Mountain-climbing was the most interesting pursuit in the world; he would
begin tomorrow and exhaust the Alps. And as for Tony--his intelligence,
his discretion, his cleverness--there never had been such a guide.
Constance listened silently, her eyes on her plate. At another time it
might have occurred to her that her father's enthusiasm was excessive,
but tonight she was occupied with her thoughts, and she had no reason in
the world to suspect him of guile. She decided, however, to postpone the
announcement of Tony's dismissal; tomorrow mountain-climbing might look
less alluring.

Dinner over, Mr. Wilder with a tired if satisfied sigh, dropped into a
chair to finish his reading of the London _Times_. He no longer skimmed
his paper lightly as in the days when papers were to be had hot at any
hour. He read it carefully, painstakingly, from the first advertisement
to the last obituary; and he laid it down in the end with a disappointed
sigh that there were not more residential properties for hire, that the
day's death list was so meager.

Miss Hazel settled herself to her knitting. She was making a rain-bow
shawl of seven colors and an intricate pattern, and she had to count her
stitches; conversation was impossible. Constance, vaguely restless,
picked up a book and laid it down, and finally sauntered out to the
terrace with no thought in the world but to see the moon rise over the
mountains.

As she approached the parapet she became aware that someone was lounging
on the water-steps smoking a cigarette. The smoker rose politely but
ventured no remark.

"Is that you, Giuseppe?" she asked in Italian.

"No, signorina. It is I--Tony. I am waiting for orders."

"For orders!" There was astonishment a