Mr. Weatherby lifted his eyes to where Algonquin lay—its peaks among the clouds.
"It looks pretty foggy up there—besides, it will be rather late starting for a climb like that."
Miss Deane seemed a bit annoyed.
"Yes," she said, rather crossly, "it will always be too foggy, or too late, or too early for you. Do you know," she added, to the company at large, "this young man hasn't offered to climb a mountain, or to go trouting, once since he's been here. I don't believe he means to, all summer. He said the other day that mountains and streams were made for scenery—not to climb and fish in."
The company discussed this point. Miss Carroway told of a hill near Haverford which she used to climb, as a girl. Frank merely smiled good-naturedly.
"I did my climbing and fishing up here when I was a boy," he said. "I think the fish are smaller now——"
"And the mountains taller—poor, decrepit old man!"
"Well, I confess the trails do look steeper," assented Frank, mildly; "besides, with the varied bill of fare we have been enjoying these days, I don't like to get too far from Mrs. Deane's medicine chest. I should not like to be seized with the last agonies on top of a high mountain."
Miss Deane assumed a lofty and offended air.
"Never you mind," she declared; "when I want to scale a high mountain I shall engage Mr. Robin Farnham to accompany me. Can you take me this afternoon?" she added, addressing Robin.