Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman’s voice talking at the table next to her own.
“Switzerland,” she was saying. “Of course! As soon as I can run away. I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till I die. I’ve tried Norway, I’ve tried the Tyrol, but I’ve gone back to my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what I need. I go there and feed upon it. It’s the tonic that braces me up for another year of hard, ugly life.”
There was a moment’s silence, then another voice asked:
“But what exactly do you feed on? What is the name of the tonic which helps you so much?”
“Beauty!” said the woman deeply.
The blood rushed to Mary’s cheeks. She had found her clue! That word showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose; now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of content.
The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.