There was a single thing only, about
which you could always be sure. He would never be twice the same.
Still, though we were friends, "Boy" and "Man" we remained. He kept
his name a secret, and he had forbidden me to mention mine. Nor had he
spoken of his route or destination, after Aosta. As to this I was
curious, for I knew now that it would be a wrench to part with the
strange little being whose ears I had tingled to box three days (or
was it three years?) ago. Already he had done me good; and though I
had hardly reached the point of confessing as much to myself, as a
plain matter of fact I would not have exchanged his quaint
companionship for that of my lost love. How she would have hated this
idyllic Arcadia! How _triste_ she would have been; how weary after a
day's tour among relics of past ages; and how much she would have
preferred Bond Street to the Arch of Augustus, or the park to our snow
mountains and green valley! Even Davos she would have found
intolerable had it not been for the tobogganing, the dances and the
theatricals, in all of which she had played a leading part. Deep down
in the darkest corner of my soul, I now knew that I would not have
fallen in love with Helen Blantock had I first met her in Aosta.
The Boy and I agreed that our head waiter was one of the nicest men we
had ever met, and when he pledged his personal honour that a day's
wandering among neighbouring castles would be "very repaying," we
determined to bolt the five he most recommended in one gulp, on our
second and last afternoon.
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