“It is not quite so big as it sounds, my dear Glenarvan. Don’t suppose you have a whole Switzerland to traverse. In Australia there are the Grampians, the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Blue Mountains, as in Europe and America, but in miniature. This simply implies either that the imagination of geographers is not infinite, or that their vocabulary of proper names is very poor.”
“Then these Australian Alps,” said Lord Glenarvan, “are—”
“Mere pocket mountains,” put in Paganel; “we shall get over them without knowing it.”
“Speak for yourself,” said the Major. “It would certainly take a very absent man who could cross over a chain of mountains and not know it.”
“Absent! But I am not an absent man now. I appeal to the ladies. Since ever I set foot on the Australian continent, have I been once at fault? Can you reproach me with a single blunder?”
“Not one. Monsieur Paganel,” said Mary Grant. “You are now the most perfect of men.”
“Too perfect,” added Lady Helena, laughing; “your blunders suited you admirably.”
“Didn’t they, Madam? If I have no faults now, I shall soon get like everybody else. I hope then I shall make some outrageous mistake before long, which will give you a good laugh. You see, unless I make mistakes, it seems to me I fail in my vocation.”
Next day, the 9th of January, notwithstanding the assurances of the confident geographer, it was not without great difficulty that the little troop made its way through the Alpine pass. They were obliged to go at a venture, and enter the depths of narrow gorges without any certainty of an outlet. Ayrton would doubtless have found himself very much embarrassed if a little inn, a miserable public house, had not suddenly presented itself.
“My goodness!” cried Paganel, “the landlord of this inn won’t make his fortune in a place like this. What is the use of it here?”