I emptied my coffee cup and set it upon the tray which she held in her left hand.
"I had," said I, "something else to tell you—and which had nothing whatever to do with love. But, on second thoughts, I am so certain that a self-sufficient girl like yourself is amply able to look out for herself, that I shall not bother to say what I had intended saying."
Her gray eyes became intently fixed on mine while her color came and went under the sting of irony.
But I made up my mind to let matters take their course. If she tried to body-snatch this Greek and Bulgarian carrion, let her! If Smith interfered, let him! What was it to me after all? I was becoming fed up on love and feminine caprice—on kings and queens and shocking manners,—on intrigue and treachery and counter plot.
Suddenly, as I stood there, a wave of disgust swept over me. I was sick of Switzerland; sick of the ridiculous property which was causing me all this trouble and discomfort; sick of the grotesque whim of Fate which had yanked me out of an orderly, unaccented life and a peaceful profession in Manhattan and had slammed me down here in the midst of love and Alps and kings!
"I'll chuck the estate and go home!" I exclaimed. "I'll go now, to-night!" And then I remembered the accursed avalanche.
She was watching me intently, curiously, and I noticed she had lost some of her colour.
"Do you suppose," said I, "that there is any way of climbing over that mass of snow?—any way of my getting out of this valley to-night?"
"Would you go if you could?" she asked in a rather colorless voice.
"Yes, I would," said I savagely. "I've had enough."