"Yes, it would have been impossible for Pa to have got off this mountain without making a landslide," said Tom, after her.
XXIII
IN THE SHADOW OF THE MATTERHORN
They had been days at dear Interlaken, walking up and down the Hoheweg, of which they never tired, or resting on the benches under the plane and walnut trees opposite their hotel, just sitting still to gaze their fill upon the Jungfrau. This was best of all—so Polly and Jasper thought; and Phronsie was content to pass hour after hour there, by Grandpapa's side, and imagine all sorts of pretty pictures and stories in and about the snow-clad heights of the majestic mountain.
And the throng of gaily dressed people sojourning in the big hotels, and the stream of tourists, passed and repassed, with many a curious glance at the stately, white-haired old gentleman and the little yellow-haired girl by his side.
"A perfect beauty!" exclaimed more than one matron, with a sigh for her ugly girls by her side or left at home.
"She's stunning, and no mistake!" Many a connoisseur in feminine loveliness turned for a last look, or passed again for the same purpose.
"Grandpapa," Phronsie prattled on, "that looks just like a little tent up there—a little white tent; doesn't it, Grandpapa dear?"
"Yes, Phronsie," said Grandpapa, happily, just as he would have said "Yes, Phronsie," if she had pointed out any other object in the snowy outline.
"And there's a cunning little place where you and I could creep into the tent," said Phronsie, bending her neck like a meditative bird. "And I very much wish we could, Grandpapa dear."