Mrs. Farquhar said that was just the reason she wanted to go.  She was willing to make any sacrifice; she considered herself just a missionary of provincialism up North, where people had become so cosmopolitan that they dared not enjoy anything.  She was an enemy of the Boston philosophy.  What is the Boston philosophy?  Why, it is not to care about anything you do care about.

The party that was arranged for this trip included Mrs. Cortlandt and her bevy of beauty and audacity, Miss Lamont and her uncle, Mrs. Farquhar, the artist, and the desperate pilgrim of love.  Mrs. Farquhar vowed to Forbes that she had dragged King along at the request of the proprietor of the hotel, who did not like to send a guest away, but he couldn’t have all the trees at Profile Lake disfigured with his cutting and carving.  People were running to him all the while to know what it meant with “I.  B.,” " I. B.,” " I. B.,” everywhere, like a grove of Baal.

From the junction to Fabyan’s they rode in an observation car, all open, and furnished with movable chairs, where they sat as in a balcony.  It was a picturesque load of passengers.  There were the young ladies in trim traveling-suits, in what is called compact fighting trim; ladies in mourning; ladies in winter wraps; ladies in Scotch wraps; young men with shawl-straps and opera-glasses, standing, legs astride, consulting maps and imparting information; the usual sweet pale girl with a bundle of cat-tails and a decorative intention; and the nonchalant young man in a striped English boating cap, who nevertheless spoke American when he said anything.

As they were swinging slowly along the engine suddenly fell into a panic, puffing and sending up shrill shrieks of fear in rapid succession.  There was a sedate cow on the track.  The engine was agitated, it shrieked more shrilly, and began backing in visible terror.  Everybody jumped and stood up, and the women clung to the men, all frightened.  It was a beautiful exhibition of the sweet dependence of the sex in the hour of danger.  The cow was more terrible than a lion on the track.  The passengers all trembled like the engine.  In fact, the only calm being was the cow, which, after satisfying her curiosity, walked slowly off, wondering what it was all about.

The cog-wheel railway is able to transport a large number of excursionists to the top of the mountain in the course of the morning.  The tourists usually arrive there about the time the mist has crept up from the valleys and enveloped everything.  Our party had the common experience.  The Summit House, the Signal Station, the old Tip-top House, which is lashed down with cables, and rises ten feet higher than the highest crag, were all in the clouds.  Nothing was to be seen except the dim outline of these buildings.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Farquhar, as they stumbled along over the slippery stones, “what people come here for.”

“Just what we came for,” answered Forbes, “to say they have been on top of the mountain.”