"Amy, you are talking in a very foolish way—in a way you have no right to talk. I am tired of listening, and I shall go inside."
Amy was in a perverse mood, at the root of which lay jealousy; and this offended her. She, too, jumped up.
"Just as you like! I'll come too. But you can't throw dust in my eyes, my dear. You never can hide things from me, you know. Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive. I have it now! I remember his name! And I shall always owe a grudge to Wratt-Wrothesley after this. Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to rob me of my Bee!"
She slightly raised her voice that Bee might hear. And as the latter disappeared within the hut door, making no reply, a soft sound floated down from the loft, just over Amy's head—the unmistakable sound of a subdued masculine snore.
"Gracious!" uttered Amy under her breath. "Somebody must be up there! What a mercy he's asleep!"
She found Bee inside, looking pale, and disposed to hold coldly aloof. Amy, already ashamed of herself, was constrained to whisper—
"Never mind! I was only talking nonsense! I won't again! It's all right!"
[CHAPTER VIII]
IN AN AVALANCHE
THE Hut was not, as Amy and Beatrice had supposed, occupied only by themselves, their guide and their porter. Unknown to them all, two guideless climbers had arrived earlier—none other than the young English clergyman and his friend. They had retired to rest in the loft, purposing to ascend the Blümlisalphorn the next day. As they meant to start in the very small hours of the morning, they were glad to get to sleep without loss of time; and by thus retreating to the loft they hoped to secure an absence of interruptions.