During Ramsay's illness and Mrs. Brutt's little indisposition, Doris had seen a great deal of Maurice. In one way and another he was perpetually turning up. She went often to the châlet to cheer the young wife; and he was frequently there. Also at meals he was her vis-à-vis. She and he with Mr. Pressford had already taken several long scrambles, inclusive of rock-climbing, severe enough to test her powers; and results had convinced them both that she might safely undertake the "real ascent" for which she craved.
By this time Doris had left off analysing her own sensations; the state of her mind being too simple to need dissection. She thought no more of Hamilton; but she thought a great deal of Dick Maurice. When with him, she wanted nothing else. When not with him, she was looking forward to their next meeting. The present was enough; and she shut her eyes to possible complications. Each day brought its own delights.
Mr. Pressford's coming had made developments easy. He was a strong wiry man, about forty in age; brusque in manner, taciturn in speech, and a passionate devotee of Alpine climbing. Always ready to take the lead, he would march steadily ahead, oblivious of or indifferent to the fact that his two companions had a trick of dropping behind, just out of ear-shot. If the "going" were difficult, he would be at once on the alert; though between Maurice's care and the girl's own sure-footedness, his help was seldom needed. At other times he preferred solitude, and liked nothing better than to be let alone.
All of which meant that Maurice and Doris were thrown more and more together; and neither wished things to be otherwise.
The first real mountain expedition was now to come off; and Doris was ready for it, down to the possession of an ice-axe, chosen under Maurice's supervision. All the day before she went about in a state of suppressed rapture, with glowing eyes and a perpetual breaking out of smiles.
Since they had to rise soon after midnight, it was needful to go to bed directly after table d'hôte; and her head was on the pillow by eight. But sleep was another matter.
Every pulse was beating with joyous expectation; and blissful visions floated before her mind's eyes in an endless diorama. She never consciously "lost herself;" yet when the awakening rap at her door came, there was first a bewildered wonder what it could mean, and then a sense of being sharply recalled from a distance. She felt sure, doubtless wrongly, that she had that instant dropped off.
No matter how brief one's rest may be, getting up is as different from going to bed as sunrise is from sunset. The glamour had departed; and dressing in midnight gloom has a depressing effect, of which even Doris was conscious. She donned by candlelight her very short serge skirt, flannel blouse, Norfolk jacket, and strong nail-studded boots. Then proudly carrying her ice-axe, she went down to breakfast.
Both men were already there; wearing their rough tweed coats, with voluminous pockets inside and out, and their putties; while their heavily-nailed and well-greased boots waited to be drawn on the moment breakfast should be over. More than a hundred feet of rope lay coiled, ready for shouldering; and a couple of ice-axes leant against the wall. Maurice, who, as the less experienced climber, would play the part of porter, was in the act of tying up his ruck-sack, stored with provisions.
Doris's spirits were fast rising; and she was surprised to find, not only the ever-taciturn Pressford, but also Maurice, in a silent mood. The latter surveyed her carefully, and knelt to examine the lacing of her boots. But he had no light chatter at command, and breakfast was eaten in sombre silence. She wondered—was this a part of the programme? Wisely, she fell in with their mental conditions.