“I’ve been out in the park,” said he, when we had exchanged by way of greeting a “Hello, Boy” and “Hello, Man.”

“Meet any chamois?”

“Yes.”

“Honour bright?  An inspection of the park from my window led me to fear that they must be an engaging myth.  There’s a fine big garden, with a lot of trees in it, but as for rocks or chamois——­”

“There are both.  Come out and I’ll show you.”

I went, walking beside the Boy along one well-kept path after another, until suddenly the bubble delusion broke.  In a cage stood or sat, in various attitudes of bored dejection, five melancholy little animals with horns, and singularly large, prominent eyes.  Their aspect begged pardon for their degradation, as they turned their backs with weak scorn upon a toy rock in the centre of their prison.  “We have reason to believe that we are well connected,” they seemed to bleat, “because there is an ancient legend in our household that we are chamois, but you must not judge the family by us.”

“I believe,” said the Boy pitifully, “they’ve degenerated so far now, that, if one gave them Mont Blanc to bound upon, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“I would, however,” said I, full of my project, “and I’m thinking of trying.”

“What do you meant” asked the Boy, looking rather startled.

“Let’s have breakfast out of doors on a little table under the trees, and I’ll tell you.  Here’s one in the shade, and away from the—­er—­a certain chamois-ness in the air.”  I pulled up chairs, and raised my hand to a hovering waiter.  “What I mean to say is,” I went on, “that I’m going to make the ascent as soon as I can arrange it.  You won’t mind waiting for me a couple of days, will you?—­or, of course, you can travel with the Contessa if you like.  No doubt she would be delighted to have you.”

“You’re going up—­Mont Blanc?”

“I am, my Kid.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because—­you might be killed.”

“Good heavens, one would think I was Icarus, gluing a pair of wax wings on to my shoulder-blades for a flight into ether.  I’m not exactly a novice at the game, you know, though I haven’t done any snow-climbing.  Why, you little donkey, you look pale.  What’s the matter with you?”

“Do you know what happened this morning—­or rather last night?” the Boy replied to my question with another.  “Did any of the hotel people tell you?”

“No.  Don’t be mysterious before breakfast.  It isn’t good for the digestion.”

“Don’t joke.  I wasn’t going to say anything about it till afterwards, in case you hadn’t heard; but now I will.  The femme de chambre told me.  The news has just come that a young guide has died of exhaustion on the mountain, between the Observatory and the Grands Mulets.  Two others who were with him had to leave him lying dead, after dragging the body down a long way.”