“Of course I won’t,” I answered, slightly hurt.  “What do you take me for?”

“I know you wouldn’t mean to,” she answered.  “But you might glance involuntarily.  You didn’t see it, did you?”

Suddenly I was tempted to tease her.  “Would it be so very dreadful if I did?”

“Yes, dreadful,” she echoed solemnly.  “Don’t joke.  Do please tell me, one way or the other, if you saw what was in the picture?”

“You may set your mind at ease.  If it were to save my life, I couldn’t tell whether the photograph was of man, woman, boy, girl, or beast; and now I’m holding it face downward.”

Molly broke into a laugh.  “Good!” she exclaimed.  “I’m coming to claim my property, and to look at your new acquisitions.  I’ve been criticising them from the window, and I congratulate you.”

A moment later she was beside me, had taken her mysterious photograph, and hidden it between the pages of a letter, covered with writing in a pretty and singularly individual hand.  She explained that a whole budget of “mail” had been forwarded to Martigny, in consequence of a telegram sent to Lucerne, and then, as if forgetting the episode, she applied herself to winning the hearts of the man Joseph and the mule Finois.

Presently we were joined by Winston, and I broached the subject of the start.  “The idea is,” I said, “to begin as I mean to go on, with a walk of from twenty to thirty miles a day, according to the scenery and my inclination.  Marcoz thinks that we could pass the night comfortably enough at a place called Bourg St. Pierre, even if we didn’t get away from here for an hour or so.  Then early to-morrow we would push on for the Hospice, and reach Aosta in the evening.”

“It would be a mistake to leave here in the heat of the day, don’t you think so?” said Jack.  “Much better if we all stopped on, did some sightseeing, and then Molly and I bade you good speed about half-past seven to-morrow morning.”

“But, Lightning Conductor, you forget we can’t stay.  You know—­the letters,” said Molly, with one of those deep, meaning glances which her lovely eyes had more than once sent Jack, when there was some question as to our ultimate parting.  My heart invariably responded to this glance with a pang, as a nerve responds to electricity.  She wished to go away with her Lightning Conductor, and leave me at the mercy of a mule.  Well, I would accept my lonely lot without complaining, but not without silently reflecting that happy lovers are selfish beings at best.

The forlorn consciousness that I was of superlative importance to no one was heavy upon me.  I wanted somebody to care a great deal what became of me, and evidently nobody did.  I was horribly homesick at breakfast, and the Winstons’ gaiety in the face of our parting seemed the last straw in my burden.  Perhaps Molly saw this straw in my eyes, for she looked at me half wistfully for a moment, and then said, “If