“What do you do there?”

“What do you do here?” said Rowland, smiling.

“I count the minutes till my week is up.  I hate mountains; they depress me to death.  I am sure Miss Garland likes them.”

“She is very fond of them, I believe.”

“You believe—­don’t you know?  But I have given up trying to imitate Miss Garland,” said Christina.

“You surely need imitate no one.”

“Don’t say that,” she said gravely.  “So you have walked ten miles this morning?  And you are to walk back again?”

“Back again to supper.”

“And Mr. Hudson too?”

“Mr. Hudson especially.  He is a great walker.”

“You men are happy!” Christina cried.  “I believe I should enjoy the mountains if I could do such things.  It is sitting still and having them scowl down at you!  Prince Casamassina never rides.  He only goes on a mule.  He was carried up the Faulhorn on a litter.”

“On a litter?” said Rowland.

“In one of those machines—­a chaise a porteurs—­like a woman.”

Rowland received this information in silence; it was equally unbecoming to either to relish or deprecate its irony.

“Is Mr. Hudson to join you again?  Will he come here?” Christina asked.

“I shall soon begin to expect him.”

“What shall you do when you leave Switzerland?” Christina continued.  “Shall you go back to Rome?”

“I rather doubt it.  My plans are very uncertain.”

“They depend upon Mr. Hudson, eh?”

“In a great measure.”

“I want you to tell me about him.  Is he still in that perverse state of mind that afflicted you so much?”

Rowland looked at her mistrustfully, without answering.  He was indisposed, instinctively, to tell her that Roderick was unhappy; it was possible she might offer to help him back to happiness.  She immediately perceived his hesitation.

“I see no reason why we should not be frank,” she said.  “I should think we were excellently placed for that sort of thing.  You remember that formerly I cared very little what I said, don’t you?  Well, I care absolutely not at all now.  I say what I please, I do what I please!  How did Mr. Hudson receive the news of my marriage?”

“Very badly,” said Rowland.

“With rage and reproaches?” And as Rowland hesitated again—­“With silent contempt?”

“I can tell you but little.  He spoke to me on the subject, but I stopped him.  I told him it was none of his business, or of mine.”

“That was an excellent answer!” said Christina, softly.  “Yet it was a little your business, after those sublime protestations I treated you to.  I was really very fine that morning, eh?”

“You do yourself injustice,” said Rowland.  “I should be at liberty now to believe you were insincere.”

“What does it matter now whether I was insincere or not?  I can’t conceive of anything mattering less.  I was very fine—­is n’t it true?”