The ladies were older and younger, and apparently mother and daughter.  The mother had kept her youth in face and figure so admirably that in another light she would have looked scarcely the elder.  It was the candor of the morning which confessed the fine vertical lines running up and down to her lips, only a shade paler than the girl’s, and that showed her hair a trifle thinner in its coppery brown, her blue eyes a little dimmer.  They were both very graceful, and they had soft, caressing voices; they now began to talk very politely to each other, as if they were strangers, or as if strangers were by.  They talked of the landscape, and of the strange cloud effect before them.  They said that they supposed they should see the Lion’s Head when the cloud lifted, and they were both sure they had never been quite so near a cloud before.  They agreed that this was because in Switzerland the mountains were so much higher and farther off.  Then the daughter said, without changing the direction of her eyes or the tone of her voice, “The gentleman who came over from the station with us last night,” and the mother was aware of Jeff Durgin advancing toward the corner of the veranda where they sat.

“I hope you have got rested,” he said, with the jovial bluntness which was characteristic of him with women.

“Oh, yes indeed,” said the elder lady.  Jeff had spoken to her, but had looked chiefly at the younger.  “I slept beautifully.  So quiet here, and with this delicious air!  Have you just tasted it?”

“No; I’ve been up ever since daylight, driving round,” said Jeff.  “I’m glad you like the air,” he said, after a certain hesitation.  “We always want to have people do that at Lion’s Head.  There’s no air like it, though perhaps I shouldn’t say so.”

“Shouldn’t?” the lady repeated.

“Yes; we own the air here—­this part of it.”  Jeff smiled easily down at the lady’s puzzled face.

“Oh!  Then you are—­are you a son of the house?”

“Son of the hotel, yes,” said Jeff, with increasing ease.  The lady continued her question in a look, and he went on:  “I’ve been scouring the country for butter and eggs this morning.  We shall get all our supplies from Boston next year, I hope, but we depend on the neighbors a little yet.”

“How very interesting!” said the lady.  “You must have a great many queer adventures,” she suggested in a provisional tone.

“Well, nothing’s queer to me in the hill country.  But you see some characters here.”  He nodded over his shoulder to where Whitwell stood by the flag-staff, waiting the morning impulse of the ladies.  “There’s one of the greatest of them now.”

The lady put up a lorgnette and inspected Whitwell.  “What are those strange things he has got in his hatband?”

“The flowers and the fungi of the season,” said Jeff.  “He takes parties of the ladies walking, and that collection is what he calls his almanac.”