Bartlett.—"Whose? Oh! Ponkwasset. It's not a pretty name, but it's aboriginal. And it doesn't hurt the mountain." Recovering a partial volition, he shows signs of a purpose to escape, when Miss Wyatt's next question arrests him.
Constance.—"Are you painting it, Mr.—Bartlett?"
Bartlett, with a laugh.—"Oh no, I don't soar so high as mountains; I only lift my eyes to a tree here and there, and a bit of pasture and a few of the lowlier and friendlier sort of rocks." He now so far effects his purpose as to transfer his unwieldy presence to a lateral position as regards Miss Wyatt. The girl mechanically turns her head upon the pillow and again fixes her sad eyes upon him.
Constance.—"Have you ever been up it?"
Bartlett.—"Yes, half a dozen times."
Constance.—"Is it hard to climb—like the Swiss mountains?"
Bartlett.—"You must speak for the Swiss mountains after you've tried Ponkwasset, Miss Wyatt. I've never been abroad."
Constance, her large eyes dilating with surprise.—"Never been abroad?"
Bartlett.—"I enjoy that distinction."
Constance.—"Oh! I thought you had been abroad." She speaks with a slow, absent, earnest accent, regarding him, as always, with a look of wistful bewilderment.