Gaetà left in the evening, the Boy and I seeing her off at the train; and twelve hours later we started for Châtelard, Joseph taking us away from the highroads—which would have been perfect for Molly's Mercédès—along certain romantic by-paths which he knew from former journeys. Conversation no longer made itself between us; we had to make it, and in the manufacturing process I mentioned my "friends who were motoring."
"They may turn up before long now," I said, "judging from the plans they wrote of in a letter I had from them at Aosta. It's just possible that they will pass through Aix. You would like them."
"I have run away from my own friends, and—gone rather far to do it," said the Boy. "Yet I seem destined to meet other people's. It was with very different intentions that I set out on this journey of mine."
"'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,'" I quoted carelessly. "Perhaps yours will end so."
"I thought I had done with lovers," said the Boy, with one of his odd smiles.
"You're not old enough to begin with them yet."
"I was thinking of—my sister. Her experience was a lesson in love I'm not likely to forget soon. Yet sometimes I—I'm not sure I learned the lesson in the right way. But we won't talk of that. Tell me about your friends. I'm becoming inured to social duties now."
"You don't seem to find them too onerous. As for my friends—they're an old chum of mine, Jack Winston, and his bride of a few months, the most exquisite specimen of an American girl I ever met. Perhaps you may have heard of her. She's the daughter of Chauncey Randolph, one of your millionaires. Look out! Was that a stone you stumbled over?"
"Yes. I gave my ankle a twist. It's all right now. I daresay my sister knows your friend."
"I must ask Molly Winston, when I write, or see her. But you've never told me your sister's name, except that she's called 'Princess.' If I say Miss Laurence––"