“
It is a glorious morning. If the weather holds, your first visit to the real Alps should be memorable,” said Bower.
Helen had just descended the long flight of steps in front of the hotel. A tender purple light filled the valley. The nearer hills were silhouetted boldly against a sky of primrose and pink; but the misty depths where the lake lurked beneath the pines had not yet yielded wholly to the triumph of the new day. The air had a cold life in it that invigorated while it chilled. It resembled some vin frappé of rare vintage. Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature.
“Why that dubious clause as to the weather?” asked Helen, looking at the golden shafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and the Piz della Margna. Those far off summits were so startlingly vivid in outline that they seemed to be more accessible than the mist shrouded ravines cleaving their dun sides. It needed an effort of the imagination to correct the erring testimony of the eye.
“The moods of the hills are variable, my lady,—femininely fickle, in fact. There is a proverb that contrasts the wind with woman’s mind; but the disillusioned male who framed it evidently possessed little knowledge of weather changes in the high Alps, or else he——”
“Did you beguile me out of my cozy room at six o’clock on a frosty morning to regale me with stale jibes at my sex?”
“Perish the thought, Miss Wynton! My only intent was to explain that the ancient proverb maker, meaning to be rude, might have found a better simile.”
“Meanwhile, I am so cold that the only mood left in my composition is one of impatience to be moving.”
“Well, I am ready.”
“But where is our guide?”