“That’s just how it is,” assented Philip. “And they say it’s the best climbing season that has been known for ten years.”
“You are a great climber, I suppose?”
“No. A rank greenhorn, in fact. The Rothhorn was the first—the first real high thing—I’ve done, and it seems likely to be the last.”
“We heard about your accident the morning after we arrived. It made quite a little excitement.”
“I suppose so,” said Philip, with a laugh. “‘Terrible tragedy. A cow fell over the bridge and broke one horn,’ as the country reporter put it.”
“Get yourself a chair, dear,” said Mrs Daventer. And as the girl moved away with that intent, Philip could not, for the life of him, keep his glance from following the graceful, lithe gait. She was a splendid-looking girl, he told himself.
“How is it you are not away among the glaciers this lovely day, Miss Daventer?” he asked, when she had returned.
“I don’t know. I suppose I felt lazy. Some of the people near us at table have gone up to the Théodule to-day, and wanted me to go with them. But I should have had to decide last night; besides, they were going to make such a woefully early start. So I didn’t want to tie myself.”
“Quite right,” said Philip. “That early start side of the question takes half the edge off the fun of any undertaking here. Still, once you are squarely out it’s all right, and you feel all the better for it.”
“Always provided you have had a fair night’s rest. But these big hotels are apt to be very noisy—people getting up at all hours and taking abundant pains to render the whole house aware of the fact.”