“Well, I am glad you have escaped,” said Wareham. “Where’s Colonel Martyn?”
“Thereby hangs a sad tale, for he has telegraphed that he will join us at Balholm, and Blanche is much displeased. And Mr Grey is left in the vortex at Stalheim. Don’t look so reproachful, or we shall ask you to go back and rescue him.”
“And miss my steamer? Forbid it, fates! Gudvangen is a charming spot, as you see—Eden, if you like; but to be left here without a companion, to live upon trout and biscuits, and amuse oneself with a jingling piano, and old photographs, would make one hate Eden. Besides, all my philanthropy is packed up in England. But what have we here?”
A larger carriage drove by to the other hotel, and was followed by a second. Both were filled with shouting parties of tourists, waving and yelling. Old Hansen set his face grimly.
“Now,” he said to Wareham, “tell me, what people are those? They belong to your country. You can explain. We have nothing like them. They do not care about the beauty, or the history, or those who live here. They are middle-aged men, many of them. They shout, and sing, and laugh as loud as they can. What are they? Why do they come?”
Wareham muttered something to the effect that there were fools in all countries.
“Tell him it’s the way we treat our lunatics,” Anne said. “It’s our new system of cure.”
“The steamer does not go until two,” Wareham said, in a low voice.
“Will your Eden bear looking into?”
“Come and see.”