Smith decidedly the plainest of the two. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. I might have known it. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself.
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