end they nearly always proved faithful to the familiar lake.  Their pension—­they regarded it almost as a country house—­was such an inducement!  The Pension Bungay was maintained by an old servant of the family, who, when he began to find the duties of butler too exacting for his declining years, gave a warning, which applied also to one of his fellow-servants, the cook, to wit, a lady of Continental origin, who had consented to become Madame Bungay; and the pair, having souls above public-houses, and relying on their not inconsiderable connection among the servants of Mayfair, had boldly and successfully launched into an independent career as sole proprietors and managers of the Pension Bungay, Lucerne.

“Yes,” said Lady Garnett sympathetically; “I suppose Pilatus is rather monotonous.  It’s rather too near, I think.  It ought to be far away, and covered with snow, more like the Jungfrau, which we have been worshipping at Interlaken, where, by the way, there are positively more Americans than natives.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Sylvester chimed in, “isn’t it dreadful the way they overrun Europe nowadays!  There are two American families staying at our pension, and you see them everywhere.”

“I think I rather like them.  They amuse me, you know, and somehow, though it may be disloyal for me, as a naturalized Englishwoman, to say so, as a rule they comport themselves much better than the ordinary British tourist.  Of course, the country is not so accessible for the Americans; it’s out of the reach of their cheap excursionists.  But how opportune that curious tower is, and the bridge! of course, it’s correct to admire them?”

Mary Masters and Eve, who had been quietly discussing chiffons, got up from their chairs with a preconcerted air.

“We are so tired of sitting still,” said the former, balancing herself with an air of indecision, and giving Mrs. Sylvester time to note the admirable taste of her simple, maize-coloured travelling dress, which did not suffer from contrast with the younger girl’s brighter and more elaborately charming toilette.  “Miss Sylvester wants to show me the uncatchable trout in the lake, and I want to go and see if the salon is empty, so that I can try the piano; and we can’t decide which to do.  I suppose, Mrs. Sylvester, that the hotel is more within the bounds of propriety?”

“Oh, well,” said Eve, laughing, “I don’t care; anyhow, let’s go and find the piano.  Only, there is sure to be some one there already.”

“By the way,” said Lady Garnett, when the girls had vanished into the building, “of course you know that Philip Rainham’s friend—­the young man who paints and has a moustache, I mean—­is here, or will be very shortly?  He was staying at our hotel at Berne.”

“Mr. Lightmark, I suppose?” answered the other, without showing her surprise except in her eyes.  “We told him that we were coming to Lucerne, and it was more or less arranged.”