I went to my quarters at the other end of the passage, and was glad of the fire which had begun to roar fiercely in a small round stove, like a gnome with a pipe growing out of his head. I had a sponge, changed, and descended to the salon, only to learn that the eating arrangements were carried on in another building, at some distance from the hotel. Feeling like a belated insect of summer overtaken by winter cold, I darted down the path indicated, to the restaurant, where I found the Americans, already seated at just such a long table as I had pictured, and still in their knickerbockers. There was, in the big room, a sprinkling of little tables under the closed windows, but they were not laid for a meal; and a chair being pulled out for me by a waiter, exactly opposite my two fellow-guests, I took it and sat down.
My first thought was to order something for the Little Pal, and to secure a promise that it should reach him hot, and soon. I then devoted myself to my own dinner, which would have been more enjoyable had I had the Boy's companionship. I had worked slowly through soup and fish, and arrived at the inevitable veal, when I was addressed by one of the Americans—him of the cleft chin and light curly hair, whose voice I had heard first in the salon.
"You came up by the mule path, didn't you?"
I answered civilly in the affirmative, aware that all my "points" were being noted by both men.
"Must have been a stiff journey in this weather."
"We came into the mist and snow just below the Col."
"Your friend is done up, isn't he?"
"Oh, he's a very plucky young chap," I replied, careful for the Boy's reputation as a pilgrim; "but he's a bit fagged, and will be better off dining in his own room."
"I expect he'll be all right to-morrow. Are you going to try and get to Chambéry, or will you return to Aix by train?"
"We shall push on, unless we're snowed in," I said.