THE WALKING ENGLISHWOMAN ON THE ALPS
You who look at home so charming—
Angel, goddess, nothing less—
Do you know you're quite alarming
In that dress?
Such a garb should be forbidden;
Where's the grace an artist loves?
Think of dainty fingers hidden
In those gloves!
Gloves! A housemaid would not wear them,
Shapeless, brown and rough as sacks,
Thick! And yet you often tear them
With that axe!
Worst of all, unblacked, unshiny—
Greet them with derisive hoots—
Clumsy, huge! For feet so tiny!
Oh, those boots!
Scene—Verandah of Swiss Hotel
Brown (finishing very lengthy account of Alpine adventure).
"And then, Miss Jones, then, just as dawn was breaking, I heard the voices of the guides above me, and I knew that I was saved—actually saved! My feelings, as I realised this, may be more easily imagined than described!"
Miss Jones (fervently). "Thank Heaven!"
[And Brown fondly imagined she was alluding to his escape.
