She raised her head to look at the patches of misty cloud that touched the mountains, at the water sparkling in the sunshine, at the blue that gathered in the distance, at all the beauty round her; and it, and the glorious fact that she had for once broken away from the life to which she had been born, were altogether too much for her. Moreover, Geraldine had a soul, kept well in order by her usual jaunty exterior, but a soul, nevertheless. For a moment it looked out of her eyes, something gripped her heart; in an unconscious search for sympathy she turned to the fair man.

He was watching her.

Quite forgetting conventionalities, she spoke. "Oh, it's lovely," she said, with a little sigh. Then pulled herself together, and added in a more commonplace tone, "But it's hot."

The last words jarred on him a little, but her voice was pleasant and refined. He looked back at her. She saw that his eyes were very blue.

"Much too hot to stay down here," he said. "What do you mean?" she asked, eager for knowledge of what people usually did, "Where ought one to go?"

"Anywhere high. I'm going up to Caux."

"Is it much cooler there?" "I hope so."

"I wonder if it is," she said thoughtfully. "I've never been in Switzerland before and don't know my way about."

He looked at her a little curiously. "Are you all alone?"

"Oh, yes," she answered promptly, and surprised him by adding "it's much nicer." His gaze wandered, and she saw it, to her left hand; there was no ring of any kind on it. He was becoming interested. "You like to be free?"

"Rather," she answered, again promptly, but there was nothing forward in her manner, it was perfectly natural and wholly without a suggestion of anything but innocent satisfaction, "it is so good to be unshackled," she had way of putting postscripts to her remarks.

"Yes, it is-Freedom is the oldest of all the pleasures."

"And the best."

"Perhaps," he answered, in a voice that showed no desire to continue the conversation.

VOL. XLV.-25

But she was anxious for information. "Caux is only a little way from here?" she asked.

"You go to it from Territet, half a mile along the lake," he nodded in its direction, "it's above Glion."

"Of course," she answered, for she had read her Baedeker with profit.

He looked at her again; she could see that he found it pleasant. "Are you looking for somewhere to settle down?" he asked.

"For a little while."

"You might like it. The hotels are good." "I must think it over," she said, and turned her chair round so as to face the lake. This man was a stranger, she remembered; she didn't want to strike up an acquaintance; he looked rather nice, but it wasn't the thing to do.

He seemed surprised at her abruptness, ordered some black coffee, paid his bill, and departed. He would have lifted his hat if she had turned her head as he left the balcony, but she appeared to have forgotten him. She hadn't of course, she was saying to herself, "No, I won't go to Caux, he might think I was following him." Still, it was puzzling to know what to do next. Then, for Geraldine had her leanings toward culture of various sorts, she remembered that Professor Tyndall had built a little châlet on Bel Alp, somewhere in the Rhone valley, which began at the end of the lake on her left. "I'll find out where that châlet is," she thought, "it's sure to be in a beautiful place. I don't suppose they have pulled it down."

She left her luggage at the restaurant and walked through Clarens to Montreux, till she came to the library. There were books and guides and photographs in the shop window. "This is the place to inquire," she thought, "and they'll probably speak English.'

She entered, spent a franc, asked some direct questions, and came away with the information that Bel Alp was above Brigue, at the far end of the Rhone valley, and that just below the Tyndall châlet, which was nearly on the summit, there was a good hotel-very high up, of course, and near a splendid glacier.

"I'll go to it," she told herself, "it will be a quite unique thing to do"; for they troubled little about high châlets or glaciers

in Geraldine's set, "no one will ever find me there. Perhaps he thinks I shall go to Caux❞—she meant the fair man, of course -"but if he does, he'll find himself mistaken."

She walked on to Territet and inspected the castle at Chillon. "It's well worth seeing," she came to the conclusion, "and the view from it is heavenly. If they had given the prisoner a room with a good window looking toward the head of the lake, he wouldn't have had so much to complain about, and Byron might never have written his poem; it's wonderful how things turn out."

A few minutes from the castle is the starting point for Glion. She had never seen a funicular railway before. It gave her quite a thrill to look up at the almost perpendicular rails laid on the wooded mountain side. "I simply must go there," she exclaimed. "The view will be lovely!"

It was all she expected, and once more she was thoroughly satisfied with herself. She had some coffee-she felt sure the tea would not be good-at another little restaurant with a balcony: the restaurants fascinated her, besides she was rather afraid, at first, of walking into hotels. She felt quite sorry when it was time to go down again and begin the business of travel once more. She had to wait a few minutes for her train and stood contemplating the railway up to Caux and the Rochers de Naye beyond. Suddenly the fair man appeared with a porter carrying two Gladstone bags and a neatly rolled-up railway rug.

She was quite vexed. "Perhaps he thinks I am lying in wait for him"-she almost said it aloud.

But he looked pleased, lifted his hat and hesitated, as if waiting for her to speak. "Oh," she said helplessly, then recovering, added, "I wanted to see Glion. Are you on your way to Caux?"

"Yes-are you coming?"

"No, I'm not," she answered with decision, and took a step toward the startingpoint of the downward train.

He went through the turnstile and stood watching her they were both, of course, in the open air. She looked round with a charming expression on her face; the sky above her and the lake low down behind were bluest blue, they made a setting that was beautiful beyond all words.

"I hope you'll enjoy it," she said; and— how strange these things are he was fascinated. Her face was a delightful shape; there was humor in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and happiness in her voice. This was a woman to love, he told himself; why was she going about the world alone?

She had lingered for a moment. "I wish you were coming," he said.

"I don't want to." She turned away quickly, then looked back again and said, "Good-by."

He wondered if she had taken offence; he had not intended any, though his words were indiscreet. Perhaps it was only that the train had arrived; he watched her slip into it-it went sliding down to Territet. He half regretted having to go to Caux; but he had telegraphed for a room and ordered his letters to be sent there: it was all arranged.

III

GERALDINE gathered up her things, took the train to Brigue, and in the morning started for Bel Alp. The road up to it was atrocious. She hired a porter to carry her luggage; for she told herself that she "couldn't run to a mule." It was farther than she had imagined, it took more than four hours; the stones cut her feet and the zigzags were endless. But she didn't mind; for the fair man came into her thoughts and bore her company; she wished he wouldn't, she tried to imagine that she was bored with him; but he did-and she wasn't: she wished it hadn't been necessary to elude him, and wondered if she would ever see him again.

The hotel was crowded, chiefly with clergymen, which is a peculiarity of the Bel Alp. "I never saw so many in my life," she thought-"and a Bishop, too-well!" There were several elderly ladies, mothers mostly of lean daughters, who went on expeditions with the athletic-looking clericals and stray young men interested in climbing feats.

Geraldine felt a little mild excitement the first evening when she took her place at table. She had put on a white blouse; round her neck she wore a thin gold chain with a singular charm attached to it; she looked dainty and eager, as if she were lying in wait for happiness, but doubtful as

to the form it would take. The assembled guests looked at her critically, they were interested, but no one spoke to her. They carefully avoided anything that might lead to it.

In two days she felt like an alien and didn't quite know what to do with herself. There was the sunrise, of course-she made a point of seeing it; and the sunset, which sent her into the raptures that came rather easily to her. "It makes me feel as if I could kneel down and say some prayers, which I don't do often," she told one of the mothers. The good lady sat outside knitting while her daughters were being convoyed about on the Aletsch glacier by a parson in tweeds with a green veil round his hat. "You ought to say them very often," the matron answered with a kindly smile. It provoked a charming one from Geraldine, and resulted in a few minutes' talk about the weather and places, and a morning and evening salutation.

But that was all.

The people had mostly been there some time and made up their sets; they didn't want to know a stray young woman. The girls realized that she was pretty and considered her in the way; the mothers looked at her askance. She went for various walks and learnt (from maps and guides) the names of the mountain peaks; but they were nothing more than names to her. She walked up to the Tyndall châlet and stood looking at it for a few minutes: it was obviously empty, and she couldn't remember how long it was since he had died, or what precisely he had done. One morning she went down, by the corkscrew way, as it was called, to the glacier, but it wasn't much fun. A happy party from the hotel overtook her young people of both sexes with a couple of active mothers thrown in-going across to the Eggishorn, with sandwichboxes and picnic-baskets. They stared, almost as if she were trespassing. She gathered courage, and following them at a distance, ventured on to the glacier and went toward the moraine. But she saw the crevasses and was afraid to go far; the other girls had steps cut in the ice for them, or found strong hands to steady them, but there was no one to help Geraldine.

She went back with her nose in the air and a little unconscious resentment in her heart. She heard there was a wonderful

precipice to see an hour or two off at Nessel; she walked half way there, then felt that she couldn't be bothered with it. A great teaparty was made up to go to it one afternoon, but she was not included. One of the curates cast longing glances at her as they departed, then looked as if he remembered a text, and turned away. A sandy-haired girl with a freckled complexion walked beside him. "I know he would rather have had me," Geraldine said to herself. "They are a set-and I wish I was back in the office. The fact is, everything was meant to be done by two people-not by one alone

that's why Eve was made, and every woman should remember it "-she thought of the fair man and wished that—but nofor, after all, she knew nothing about him. "But I shall go away to-morrow," she exclaimed.

She always came to a quick decision, so she went to the Bureau and announced her intention. Then, with infinite relief in her mind, she walked a quarter of a mile on the downward path, thinking that conventionality was a nuisance. "I daresay we should have amused each other if I had gone to Caux, and there would have been no harm in it at all. But, of course, one has to play up to the proprieties."

Things happen strangely, for almost as she thought it she saw coming toward her a mule carrying two bags and a neatly rolled-up railway rug; a few steps behind was the stranger of the restaurant. It was no good trying to hide it, the relief was so great that she laughed for joy. He saw it and laughed back again. She recovered in a moment and put on a distant air with her pleasant nod of recognition>

"Are you coming to stay?" she asked. "Just for a night or two," he answered. "I've been here week. I'm going away to-morrow-and am counting the hours."

He looked toward the wonderful chain of snowy Alps. "But it is so magnificent," he said.

"Oh, yes," she answered, "but wait till you've seen the people. There are thousands of parsons, and most of the women are cats-I've hardly spoken to a soul since I came

"Did you come for the people?"

The color rose to her face. He realized again that she could be charming; his heart reached out to her; he determined

"No," she answered, "of course not; but they look at me as if I were a freak." Then suddenly a thought struck her. "I don't believe you'll get in," she said. "The hotel is quite full, you'd better go and see." She turned away abruptly, as she had done at the restaurant and the Caux station-he was used to it by this time-and continued her walk. She had remembered that, though she had thought of him many times, they had only met twice before.

At dinner she found that her place was next his; she reflected with satisfaction that this was the first time he had seen her without a hat, and she knew that the white blouse suited her.

"I'm glad to have someone to speak to," she said, forgetting to disguise her pleasure, "but I don't know what they'll think." She lowered her voice while she said the last words; it almost made for intimacy.

news, and entered into an intermittent talk that was reluctant on the stranger's side, but not to be wholly avoided. Geraldine was indignant; no one had spoken to her. Why should he be taken up immediately and she boycotted?

People hurried outside after dinner. "Do come," he said, "there are some sunset clouds about still." He rose and waited for her.

They went to a little table somewhat apart from the others and, when the coffee was brought, Geraldine had a pleasant sense of being really abroad, of feeling continental, as she called it. And she was happy; the whole world had changed. The people who had obviously sniffed at her the last few days realized as she passed that she had her moments of being beautiful. They tried to sniff still, of course. "That girl," as the women called her, had found some one she knew-and the man looked like a

"But we are not."

"Some people are meant to be friends, though they won't recognize the fact if they can help it. Don't you think we were?" "Perhaps."

"Suppose we have the benefit of the doubt?" He turned his face toward her; she noticed again the blueness of his eyes. "It will be more amusing than saying nothing," she said. "But we don't know anything about each other."

"We have at least that attraction." "Is it one?"

"Don't you think that a little mystery always is? Let us have our coffee outside presently and look at the eternal snows while we discuss it." They could see the whiteness through the windows. "Do you despise me for saying eternal snows? It sounds like a sentimental penny-a-liner." Geraldine's wits were quick. "Do you write books?" she asked.

"Sometimes. But I don't get a penny a line because no one reads them."

"Oh! What are they about?' "Sometimes they are about philosophy." She made a little grimace. "Do you do anything else?"

"I have an unimportant position in a Government office"

A man on his other side asked if he had

but who and what was he? One of them tried the visitor's book; but the stranger had not entered his name. The parsons, who thought they remembered him, that he had been senior or junior to them, felt that he was all right and that it might lead to their knowing the girl; she was uncommonly pretty; if she had been plainer they might have spoken to her before, butwell, there was the Bishop: he sat at the head of the table and one had to be careful. And they were glad she had found some one she knew, and the chap was in luck to come upon her.

IV

THEIR talk was quite impersonal at first, he had been to the Bel Alp before and knew all the routes and walks. He pointed out the various mountains and told her of outof-the-way places; it was wonderful how many he had been to, she thought. She told him about the Eggishorn party, and how she had stopped short at the moraine.

"I don't see why we shouldn't go across it-to the Eggishorn-to-morrow," he said. "Let me take you."

"But I'm going away."
"Is it absolutely necessary?"
“No—” and she hesitated.

"Then why not stay? We haven't been

introduced; but we live outside a Bab ballad." He leant forward a little. "Does it matter so much-surely we know——?" "Yes, we know," she echoed. There was more feeling than was necessary in her voice; she wondered how it had come there, and tried to cover the situation by adding quickly, "Or we might go to Nessel?" which only made it worse. "But I should be afraid to look over the precipice."

"I would take care of you." "It's a long way," she demurred. "Not more than an hour or two, and you walk like Diana-I watched you this afternoon."

"Do you mean of 'The Crossways'?" for Geraldine had read her Meredith.

"No, some one much farther back than she, and more beautiful." He said the last words in a whisper.

"I don't like compliments." She made the little abrupt movement that he was beginning to dread.

peaks then too-the great chain of mountains that looked eternal and infinite-the cold caressing air-everything, as it was now, in the first twilight of all, when one man and woman walked alone. For a moment she felt as if she knew, as if she remembered, she pretended that she did, then brought herself back to the present with a jerk. "I wonder why we live in cities and towns," she said, "with streets and noises and crowds of hurrying people." "I don't."

"I wish I didn't. It's wonderful here, I could stay forever." A few hours ago she had been counting the hours to her departure, he thought.

"Suppose we do-shall we?"

She frowned a little, perhaps because of the eagerness in his voice.

"No," she said coldly-"I'm going away to-morrow."

"Not to-morrow," he argued, "you gave in about the Eggishorn."

"Did I?" She laughed, low and sweet,

"I don't know. Breakfast is at ninebut I didn't say that I was going. It's getting chilly," she got up.

"Let me get you a shawl-it's a pity to go indoors."

The twilight was coming, the after-dinner group on the little plateau had dispersed in various directions, in twos mostly -why not they?

"I left one in the Bureau this afternoon," she said and felt it to be a concession.

He went to the house; she watched him and counted his long strides he was made to run after a Diana, she thought. He returned with a little white wrap. It was becoming and Geraldine knew it—a woman who charms always knows. He put it on her. They were no longer strangers.

There was a curving pathway on the left, they went round it in silence, and disappeared away from any sign of the hotel, and beyond all sounds that belonged to it. They felt, he and she alike, as if they were walking back through the centuries. The world had probably looked like this when it began, before any horrid houses were built, or tourists invented, and when there were no conventionalities to worry about. There must have been the same bareness of vegetation-rocks and stones-and white

looked round at him. "It must be splendid to write about philosophy," she said suddenly.

"Well, hardly that; unfortunately most people find it dull to read." They went on in silence again, a stone evidently hurt her, for she started, then stopped and made a little sound of pain. "I have come out in thin shoes," she said. Instinctively he put out an arm, but she drew back before it could reach her. There was one of the usual convenient seats beside the pathway, backed by high rocks, gaunt and desolatelooking with the suggestion of primitive things that fascinated her. She sat down; for a minute or two she seemed to forget him.

"I want to take it all in," she said at last, "I never came abroad before, and everything is wonderful to me."

He stood, looking at her in silence with his back against a wall of rock, for she had evidently not expected him to sit too: she had a curious power of putting a sense of distance between them, across which it was impossible to reach. The twilight deepened, they could almost feel the shadows gathering, an enchantment seemed to be coming with them. She looked as if she knew, as if she waited for something far of to return.