Colonel Martyn was charged with hope. He had met the party from the Skjaeggedalsfos, and report of certain difficulties owing to a fall of rock had fired his athletic soul. Wareham added that the fos itself was worth a visit, but this idea he rejected.
“See one, see all,” he declared. “A hurly-burly of water, and no fishing—there you have it. But there might be a chance of a climb getting there, and at any rate it must be better than loafing about this wretched little hole. Anne, will you come?”
“No, thank you. I prefer loafing.”
“Will you?”—to Wareham.
“I don’t mind. I’ve been once, and should not be sorry to see it again.”
“Eight. And if you know the lingo, perhaps you’ll make the arrangements. Better change your mind, Anne.”
“No. My mind is set upon easier pleasures. Where’s Blanche?”
“You needn’t ask.” Colonel Martyn’s gloom returned. “Buying Brummagem goods in the shop.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if you believed the fall came from Brummagem too,” Anne retorted. “Well, I’m going to help her. Good-night.”
“You’d better be sure you know how to work your fire-escape before you go to bed,” he called after her. “It’s a common occurrence for the hotels to be burnt down once a month.”