"Did you say you were miserable last night?" she inquired with
flattering eagerness.
"Yes. Awfully miserable."
"Poor Lord Lane! I haven't understood yet exactly why you suddenly
gave up your walking tour, and got the idea of going on by rail. I
thought from your letters you were having such a good time, that we
could hardly bribe you to desert--your party and come with us, even at
Grenoble."
"My party deserted me, and that was the end of my 'good time,'" I
replied, charmed with Molly's conception of the role of a "quiet
kitten" whose existence was to be forgotten. As if any man could ever
forget hers!
"What, your nice Joseph and his Finois?" she inquired.
"When I speak of 'my party' I refer particularly to the boy I wrote
you about," I returned, far from averse to being drawn out on the
subject of my troubles, though I had resolved, were I not intimately
questioned, to let them prey upon my damask cheek.
"Oh, yes, that wonderful American boy. Did he keep right on being
wonderful all the time, or did he turn out disappointing in the end?"
"Disappointing!" I echoed. "No; rather the other way round. He was
always surprising me with new qualities. I never saw anyone like him."
"Ah, perhaps that's because you never knew other American boys. I dare
say if I'd met him I shouldn't have found him so remarkable."
"Yes, you would," I protested.
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