Matthew Lanfear had stopped off, between Genoa and Nice, at San Remoin the interest of a friend who had come over on the steamer with him,and who wished him to test the air before settling there for the winterwith an invalid wife. She was one of those neurasthenics who reallycarry their climate—always a bad one—with them, but she hadset her mind on San Remo; and Lanfear was willing to pass a few days inthe place making the observations which he felt pretty sure would beadverse.
His train was rather late, and the sunset was fading from the Frenchsky beyond the Italian shore when he got out of his car and looked roundfor a porter to take his valise. His roving eye lighted on the anxiousfigure, which as fully as the anxious face, of a short, stout, elderlyman expressed a sort of distraction, as he stood loaded down withumbrellas, bags, bundles, and wraps, and seemed unable to arrest themovements of a tall young girl, with a travelling-shawl trailing fromher arm, who had the effect of escaping from him towards a bench besidethe door of the waiting-room. When she reached it, in spite of hisappeals, she sat down with an absent air, and looked as far withdrawnfrom the bustle of the platform and from the snuffling train as if onsome quiet garden seat along with her own thoughts.
In his fat frenzy, which Lanfear felt to be pathetic, the oldgentleman glanced at him, and then abruptly demanded: “Are you anAmerican?”
We knew each other abroad in some mystical way, and Lanfear did nottry to deny the fact.
“Oh, well, then,” the stranger said, as if the fact madeeverything right, “will you kindly tell my daughter, on tha