Breakfast was laid out of doors, upon a wide stone terrace, which adjoined the back of the hotel on a lower level than the front door. A good many people were already at the tables. Doris glanced at none of them, but made her way to the edge, where she stood to enjoy herself.
Sharply away from the terrace fell the ground below; and deep down, out of sight, flowed a stream on its way to join another and larger torrent; whence both streams journeyed together to the Rhone.
Away to the left rose the jagged Diablerets peaks; and away to the right the spreading mass of the Dent du Midi. Just opposite, with lesser green heights between, a great range of bare rock-mountains lifted itself high into the blue sky.
Doris stood in rapt delight, drinking it all in, studying wondrous outlines, curves, and flutings. Then a feeling of being watched made her turn. She still looked at nobody, but walked to her own seat and took it, forgetting to bow as she did so. One of the smiling waitresses was already there, with a small teapot; and Doris was about to inquire whether Mrs. Brutt's needs had received attention. But the idea fled. Lifting her eyes, she met the gaze of a steady grey pair, at the same table, just on the other side.
The flash of pleasure in her face came before she was aware; and it met a like flash in his. But she knew at once that he had seen her before she saw him. He was not taken by surprise.
"So you have come to this hotel," she said, a little confused at having shown what she felt. It was like meeting an old friend, she said to herself. Yet she had seen him but once before.
He said—"Yes,"—smiling; and as before, with the smile came a nameless charm, amounting to far more than ordinary good looks. "And you are still here?"
"We've taken our rooms for six weeks. It's a perfectly—ripping place!"
"Seems so this morning. I got in last night."
"Are you going up a mountain to-day?"