“Ach, so!” replied Frau Schultz, enigmatically, and they continued their walk. But after this, conversation was not cordial. At the Kursaal they turned and retraced their steps.
On the Quai du Mont Blanc, where the steamers lay at their moorings, Frau Schultz stopped and looked at the view. Things were vivid in their spring freshness, and stood out clear in the wind-swept air. The larches in Rousseau's Island had put on their green, and so had the clustering limes in the Jardin Anglais, at the other end of the bridge. Above the white, tree-hidden shops and cafés on the Grand Quai, the old town rose sharply defined, around the grim cathedral. Straight in front was the ever sea-blue lake, its fringe of trees on the other side, just hiding the villas at the foot of the hills; and away in the intense distance behind them rose the crest of Mont Blanc, shimmering like frosted silver against the blue sky.
At the sight of the latter, Frau Schultz drew a long, rapt breath.
“Wunderschon!”
She would not trust herself to speak English. She looked at Felicia for responsive enthusiasm. But Felicia was angry, and she could not help feeling a little resentment against Mont Blanc, for affording Frau Schultz pleasurable sensations. But she replied politely that it was very pretty.
“How few of you English have any soul!” said Frau Schultz, as they went on again.
“I think it is that we are not sentimental,” said Felicia.
“I never could quite understand what that 'sentimental' is, that you are all so afraid of.”
“It is making the same fuss about little emotions as one only could about big ones.”
“So you think I am sentimental because I admire the glorious nature?”