“Certainly not!” answered the married sister promptly.
The incident constituted a subject for discussion, the younger girl contending that the obliging male should never be curtly repulsed; the other arguing that a difficulty would have been found in persuading the youth to accept cash for refreshments supplied, and, consequent on this, the trouble in preventing him from becoming intrusive could scarcely be measured. At Lausanne, where passengers took breakfast, he very properly kept his distance. At Bex, in the tram-cars, which were to make the climb with the aid of motive power at the back, he gave up his place to the elder of the two and sat side by side with the girl in the crowded luggage van.
“Yes,” she replied, “I skate, and I should like to learn to ski. Do you?”
“Moderately good at it,” replied L.O.M. “Did some in Norway.”
“Then, perhaps—”
“You will find an instructor up there,” he said.
She turned away huffily.
It was not, however, easy to avoid joining in the general conversation. Everybody had projects for the filling up of the winter holiday; the conductor, as the car went slowly up the hill, was appealed to for information concerning weather, and being a man of cheerful temperament, gave exactly the particulars that were hoped and desired, without allowing truth to mar the effect. Thus an atmosphere of hopefulness pervaded the luggage van, and even retiring military men perched upon trunks became vivacious, talking of desperate deeds already accomplished in other places on toboggans, and speaking with relish of the appetite that came after these exercises. The two were soon again in conversation, and the girl mentioned that her sister’s maiden name was Rodgers, a fact which enabled him to perceive acutely that this must be also the girl’s name. Turning the label on his valise, he introduced himself.
“Masterson,” he said.
“I like names of three syllables,” she remarked.