There was a rattling of chinaware behind them. In no little confusion both came tumbling down from Paradise, and found themselves under the abashed scrutiny of a very red-faced young serving-woman.
"Oh, never mind," stammered Gretchen quite amiably. "I am used to that, madame. A great many ladies and gentlemen come here to—to—what you call it?" She placed the tea and sandwiches before them, her fingers all thumbs, her cheeks aglow.
Brock pulled himself together. Very sternly he said: "This young lady is to be my wife."
"Ach," said Gretchen, with a friendly smile and the utmost deference, "that is what they all say, mein Herr." Then, giggling approvingly, she bustled away.
Brock waited until she was out of sight. "She seems to be onto us, as Freddie would say. But what do we care? I'd like to stand on top of the Bandjoch and shout the news to the world. Wouldn't you, dearest?"
"The world wouldn't hear us, dear," she said coolly. "Besides, it's raining up there. Just look at it sweeping down upon us! Goodness!"
He laughed hilariously, amused by her attempt to be casual and indifferent. "You can't turn it off so easily as that, dearest," he cried. "Come! While it rains we may plan. You will marry me—to-morrow?"
"No!" she cried, aghast. "How utterly ridiculous!"
"Well, then, day after to-morrow?"
"No, no—nor week after next. I—"