“The valley of Saint Moritz is a dreary country,” she next said.

“Rather say, madame, that it is a dreary country possessing a great charm for those who love it.”

“It appears that Mlle. Moriaz is almost wearied to death there.  I should think she would die of ennui.”

“Do you think her capable of yielding to ennui in any place?”

“Certainly, do not doubt it; but she has recourse to her imagination to dispel the tedium.  She has a marvellous talent for procuring herself diversion and for varying her pleasures.  Hers is an imagination having many relays:  no sooner is one horse exhausted than there is another to take its place.”

“That is a precious gift,” he replied, briefly.  “I assure you, however, that you calumniate the Engadine.  The trees there are not so well grown as those in your park; but the Alpine fir and pine have their beauty.”

“You went to this hole for your health, monsieur?”

“Yes, and no, madame.  I was not ill, but any physician contended that I should be still better if I breathed the air of the Alps for three weeks.  It was taking a cure as a preventive.”

“M.  Larinski made the ascent of the Morteratsch,” said Camille, who, seated on a divan with his arms extended on his knees, never had ceased to look at Samuel Brohl with a hard and hostile glance.  “That is an exploit that can be performed only by well people.”

“It is no exploit,” replied Samuel; “it is a work of patience, easy for those who are not subject to vertigo.”

“You are too modest,” rejoined the young man.  “Had I done as much, I would sound a trumpet.”

“Have you attempted the ascent?” asked Samuel.

“Not at all.  I do not care about having feats of prowess to relate,” he replied, in an almost challenging tone.

Mme. de Lorcy hastened to interrupt the conversation by saying, “Is this the first time you have been in Paris, monsieur?”

“Yes, madame,” replied Samuel, who withdrew more and more into his shell.

“And does Paris please you as much as a pine-grove?”

“Much more, madame.”

“Have you any acquaintances?”

“None; and the truth is, I have no desire to make any.”

“Why?”

“Shall I tell you my reason?  I am not fond of breaking ice, and Poles complain that there is nothing in the world so icy as Parisian coldness.”

“That explains itself,” cried Camille.  “Paris, that is Paris proper, is a small city of a hundred thousand souls, and this small city is invaded more and more, by strangers who come here to seek pleasure or fortune.  It is but natural that Paris should protect itself.”

“Parisians pride themselves on their penetration,” replied Samuel.  “It does not require much of it to distinguish an honest man from an adventurer.”

“Ah! permit me,” returned M. Langis, “that depends a good deal on practice.  The most skillful are deceived.”