They were approaching the lake, which already showed through the tree-trunks. A path led away to the left across a rustic bridge.
"That's the way to the hotel. Yaé is there. Farther along are the Russian, French and British Embassies. That's about half an hour from here."
Reggie's little villa stood at a few minutes' distance in the opposite direction, past two high Japanese hotels which looked like skeleton houses with the walls taken out of them, past sheds where furs were on sale, and picture post-cards, and dry biscuits.
The garden of the villa jutted out over the lake on an embankment of stones. The house was discreetly hidden by a high hedge of evergreens.
"William Tell's chapel," explained Reggie, "a week in lovely Lucerne!"
It was a Japanese house, another skeleton. From the wicket gate, Geoffrey could see its simple scheme open to the four winds, its scanty furniture unblushingly displayed; downstairs, a table, a sofa, some bamboo chairs and a piano—upstairs, two beds, two washstands, and the rest. The garden consisted of two strips of wiry grass on each side of the house; and a flight of steps ran down to the water's edge, where a small sailing-boat was moored.
The landscape of high wooded hills was fading into evening across the leaden ripples of the lake.
"What do you think of our highland home?" asked Reggie.
There was not a sign of life over the heavy waters, not a boat, not a bird, not an island even.
"Not much doing," commented Geoffrey, "but the air's good."