She lay sound asleep on her side, after having come home in the night. The impressions of the mountains' summits were still playing in her brain. She had another trout on the line—it flashed and floundered there in the lake—Grip came up with two sticks, which were to be placed crossways.
Surr-humm! straight into her face, so that she woke up.
The day was already far advanced.
There on the toilet table with white hangings above it surrounding the glass which had been put there for her return home, was the violet soap in silver paper.
It was plainly that which attracted all the inexperienced insects to ruin: they had found the way to an entirely new world of flowers there and plunged blindly headlong, believing in the discovery, without any conception of the numerous artificial products of the age outside of the mountain region—that the fragrance of violets did not produce violets, but only horrid, horrid pains in the stomach. There plainly existed an entire confusion in their ideas, to judge by all the disquiet and humming in and out of those that had recently come and possibly began to suspect something wrong and took a turn or two up and down in the room first, before the temptation became too great for them, and by the earlier arrivals that slowly crept up and down on the wall with acquired experience in life, or were lying stupefied and floundering on the window-sill.
"Ish!—and straight up into the washing water."
She looked with a certain indignation at the cause—her violet soap.
At the same time it opened a new train of thought while she smelled it two or three times.
"Mother's yellow soap is more honest."