Mrs. Thesiger was satisfied.  Sylvia clearly did not suspect that it was just the appearance of that stiff, old-fashioned couple which had driven her out of Trouville a good month before her time—­her, Mrs. Thesiger of the many friends.  She fell to wondering what in the world had brought M. de Camours and his mother to that watering place amongst the brilliant and the painted women.  She laughed again at the odd picture they had made, and her thoughts went back over twenty years to the time when she had been the wife of M. de Camours in the chateau overlooking the village in Provence, and M. de Camours’ mother had watched her with an unceasing jealousy.  Much had happened since those days.  Madame de Camours’ watchings had not been in vain, a decree had been obtained from the Pope annulling the marriage.  Much had happened.  But even after twenty years the memory of that formal life in the Provencal chateau was vivid enough; and Mrs. Thesiger yawned.  Then she laughed.  Monsieur de Camours and his mother had always been able to make people yawn.

“So you are glad that we are going to Chamonix, Sylvia—­so glad that you couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes.”

It sounded rather unaccountable to Mrs. Thesiger, but then Sylvia was to her a rather unaccountable child.  She turned her face to the wall and fell asleep.

Sylvia’s explanation, however, happened to be true.  Chamonix meant the great range of Mont Blanc, and Sylvia Thesiger had the passion for mountains in her blood.  The first appearance of their distant snows stirred her as no emotion ever had, so that she came to date her life by these appearances rather than by the calendar of months and days.  The morning when from the hotel windows at Glion she had first seen the twin peaks of the Dent du Midi towering in silver high above a blue corner of the Lake of Geneva, formed one memorable date.  Once, too, in the winter-time, as the Rome express stopped at three o’clock in the morning at the frontier on the Italian side of the Mont Cenis tunnel, she had carefully lifted the blind on the right-hand side of the sleeping compartment and had seen a great wall of mountains tower up in a clear frosty moonlight from great buttresses of black rock to delicate pinnacles of ice soaring infinite miles away into a cloudless sky of blue.  She had come near to tears that night as she looked from the window; such a tumult of vague longings rushed suddenly in upon her and uplifted her.  She was made aware of dim uncomprehended thoughts stirring in the depths of her being, and her soul was drawn upward to those glittering spires, as to enchanted magnets.  Ever afterward Sylvia looked forward, through weeks, to those few moments in her mother’s annual itinerary, and prayed with all her heart that the night might be clear of mist and rain.