“Blanche, will you explore?”
“No. It is too hot. I hear there is a shop with rather nice furs, and I haven’t seen one for a week. Mind you two aren’t late.”
“Late, when it isn’t half-past twelve! But I can’t sit on the steamer with those lunatics a moment longer than is necessary, and Mr Wareham’s inn may be delightfully primitive, but I have never set myself up as a specimen of primitive woman, and I prefer Eden without its inn. Well, Mr Wareham, I am waiting.” She stood erect, smiling.
“Where will you go?”
“What have you to offer?”
“A path by the fjord, where you will find Mrs and Miss Ravenhill sketching, and the road by which you have just come.”
“You don’t perplex one with the amount of choice. We will go back. Stalheim, wicked Stalheim, attracts me, I own.”
They were walking along the road. Whenever he could, Wareham glanced at her, admiring the easy poise of her figure, her light strong step.
“Aren’t you contented with having brought down a part of the world you admire?”
“They don’t harmonise with Eden, to tell the truth,” said Anne, laughing. “I’m not sure that any of us do. But I grant you all that you demand as to its charms. Look at the soft shadows on the hills. I can fancy it a very refreshing little place for a day; perhaps two,”—doubtfully—“if one was sure—absolutely sure—of getting away the day after.”