Just before the top of the hill the path turned and disclosed a new view framed between the embankment on the right and the border of shrubs on the left, their leaves half coloured and mingling the green of spring with autumnal gold. Le Nivolet came abruptly into view, with its regular architectural lines and gradients, re-echoing the glory of the vanished sun.
The slender thickets that clung to its rocky sides took on a tint of violet like the dregs of wine, while the chain of Margeria behind it showed quite rosy and charming, in its tones of flesh-colour.
“See, what a change in the scene,” murmured Maurice, not noticing that his companion paid heed much sooner to the fact of their being alone than to the marvels of the evening light.
She halted in their walk, and he turned back toward her.
“What’s the matter? Are you tired?”
“Oh, no. I’m only giving you time to admire the landscape.”
“Would you be jealous?”
“Yes, you love your country, and I——”
“And you?”
“I shan’t say the rest——”