The small dark man bowed low, yet with a certain reserve.

“You are welcome, messieurs,” he said in English, spoken with a very strong foreign accent.  “I am greatly in your debt that you have been of service to my sister.”

He bowed again to both of us, without in the least distinguishing which of us had done the service, which I thought unfair.

“It is my desire,” he went on more freely, as one that falls into a topic upon which he is accustomed to speak, “that English people should be made aware of the beauty of this noble plateau of Promontonio.  It is a favourable chance which brings you here.  Will you permit me to show you the hotel?”

He paused as though he felt the constraint of the circumstances.  “Here, you understand, gentlemen, I am a hotel-keeper.  In my own country—­that is another matter.  I trust, gentlemen, I may receive you some day in my own house in the province of Kasan.”

“It will make us but too happy,” said I, “if in your capacity as landlord you can permit us to remain a few days in this paradise.”

I saw Henry look at me in some astonishment; but his training forbade him to make any reply, and the little noble landlord was too obviously pleased to do more than bow.  He rang a bell and called a very distinguished gentleman in a black dress-coat, whose spotless attire made our rough outfit look exceedingly disreputable, and the knapsacks upon our backs no less than criminal.  We decided to send at once to Vico Averso for our baggage.

But these very eccentricities riveted the admiration of our distinguished host, for only the mad English would think of tramping through the Val Bergel in the heart of May with a donkey’s load on their backs.  Herr Gutwein, a mild, spectacled German, and the manager of this cosmopolitan palace, was instructed to show us to the best rooms in the house.  From him we learned that the hotel was nearly empty, but that it was being carried on at great loss, in the hope of ultimate success.

We found it indeed an abode of garish luxury.  In the great salon, the furniture was crimson velvet and gold.  All the chairs were gilt.  The very table-legs were gilded.  There were clocks chiming and ticking everywhere, no one of them telling the right time.  In the bedrooms, which were lofty and spacious, there were beautiful canopies, and the most recent improvements for comfort.  The sitting-rooms had glass observatories built out, like swallows’ nests plastered against the sides of the house.  Blue Vallauris vases were set in the corners and filled with flowers.  Turkey carpets of red and blue covered the floor.  Marvellous gold-worked tablecloths from Smyrna were on the tables.  Everywhere there was a tinge of romance made real—­the dream of many luxuries and civilisations transplanted and etherealised among the mountains.

Then, when we had asked the charges for the rooms and found them exceedingly reasonable, we received from the excellent Herr Gutwein much information.