“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid—”
“Is there any letter yet?”
“No—”
“I do not see any cause for alarm—letters are so often detained, but, of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?”
“Sometimes, but summer always does her good—”
“I shall see her to-morrow—and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have you broken down yet, Ethel?”
“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.”
“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil—I have the taste still in my mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild with delight in those places!”
“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.”
“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.”