Lynde had never seen Miss Denham in any but a dark travelling-dress, or in such unobtrusive costume as a modest girl may wear at a hotel table.  He stood motionless an instant, seeing her in a trailing robe of some fleecy, maize-colored material, with a cluster of moss-roses at her corsage and a cross of diamonds at her throat.  She was without other ornament.  The shade of her dress made her hair and eyes and complexion wonderful.  Lynde was proud to have her look like that for Flemming, though he was himself affected by a queer impression that this queenly young person was not the simple, lovely girl he had known all along.  He was embarrassed by her unexpected elegance, but he covered his embarrassment and his pleasure by presenting his friend to the ladies, and ordering the servant to serve the dinner immediately.

Lynde’s constraint was only momentary, and the others had experienced none.  Flemming, indeed, had a fleeting surprise at finding in the aunt a woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight, in the Indian summer of her beauty.  Lynde had given him the idea of an elderly person with spectacles.  As to Miss Denham, she had not fallen short of the mental picture Flemming had drawn of her—­which ought to have surprised him.  No charms or graces in a woman, however, could much surprise Flemming; he accepted them as matters of course; to him all women were charming in various degrees.  He had that general susceptibility which preserves us the breed of bachelors.  The constant victim of a series of minor emotions, he was safe from any major passion.  There was a certain chivalrous air of camaraderie in his manner to women which made them like him sooner or later; the Denhams liked him instantly.  Even before the potage was removed, Lynde saw that his dinner was a success.  “The cook may drop dead now, if he wants to,” said Lynde to himself; “he can’t spoil anything.”

“You are not entirely a stranger to us, Mr. Flemming,” said Mrs. Denham, looking at him from behind the floral pyramid, which had the happy effect of isolating two guests who sat opposite each other.  “There is a person who goes about foreign lands with no other ostensible mission than to sound your praise.”

“You must set down a great deal to filial gratitude,” returned Flemming.  “I have been almost a father to our young friend.”

“He tells me that your being here is quite accidental.”

“It was one of those fortunate things, madam, which sometimes befall undeserving persons, as if to refute the theory of a special providence.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Flemming”—­it was Miss Ruth who spoke—­“it was evidently arranged with the clearest foresight; for if you had been a day later, perhaps you would not have found your friend in Geneva—­that is, if Mr. Lynde goes with us to Chamouni.”

“You have heard from Mr. Denham, then?” said Lynde, turning to the aunt.

“We had letters this morning.  Mr. Denham is in Paris, where he will remain a week or ten days, to show the sights to an old American friend of ours who is to join our party.  I think I told you, Mr. Lynde?  Supposing us to be weary of Geneva by this time, Mr. Denham suggests that we go on to Chamouni and wait there.  I have left the matter to Ruth, and she decides in favor of leaving to-morrow, if the weather is fine.”