Tony nodded, suddenly moody.
“Yes. Depending on her health and my good conduct”—rather bitterly. “So they’re swishing her off to the Swiss mountains for the one and my uncle is removing me from the temptations of Monte Carlo for the other.”
“What part of Switzerland are the Nevilles going to?” inquired Eliot, more for the sake of saying something than because the subject held the remotest interest for him. “Davos?”
“No. Somewhere up above Montricheux.”
“Montricheux?” The word left Eliot’s lips involuntarily.
“Yes. You know it, don’t you?”
“I’ve been there”—briefly.
“I had the adventure of my life there,” volunteered Tony. “I’ve never forgotten it, by Jove! Up at a place called the Dents de Loup.”
Had he been looking he would have seen a sudden smouldering fire wake in the keen grey eyes of the man beside him. But he was occupied in lighting a cigarette at the moment, and, failing to observe the change in Eliot’s expression, he pursued reminiscently:
“Yes. I was up there with a girl I’d known ever since I was a kid—we’d almost been brought up together. And the first thing I did was to go and skid down the side of a ravine.” He puffed futilely at his cigarette. “Blow! It’s gone out.”