on the road with me than in acquiescing in a quiet arrangement about a ceremonial day; partly because, in the first case, she would throw herself and the rest of the adventure on me, at no other cost than the enjoyment of one of her impulses; and in the second, because she is a girl who would require a full band of the best Berlin orchestra in perpetual play to keep up her spirits among her people during the preparations for espousing a democrat, demagogue, and Jew, of a presumed inferior station by birth to her own.  Give Momus a sister, Clotilde is the lady!  I know her.  I would undertake to put a spell on her and keep her contented on a frontier—­not Russian, any barbarous frontier where there is a sun.  She must have sun.  One might wrap her in sables, but sun is best.  She loves it best, though she looks remarkably well in sables.  Never shall I forget . . . she is frileuse, and shivers into them!  There are Frenchmen who could paint it —­only Frenchmen.  Our artists, no.  She is very French.  Born in France she would have been a matchless Parisienne.  Oh! she’s a riddle of course.  I don’t pretend to spell every letter of her.  The returning of my presents is odd.  No, I maintain that she is a coward acting under domination, and there’s no other way of explaining the puzzle.  I was out of sight, they bullied her, and she yielded—­bewilderingly, past comprehension it seems—­cat!—­until you remember what she’s made of:  she’s a reed.  Now I reappear armed with powers to give her a free course, and she, that abject whom you beheld recently renouncing me, is, you will see, the young Aurora she was when she came striking at my door on the upper Alp.  That was a morning!  That morning is Clotilde till my eyes turn over!  She is all young heaven and the mountains for me!  She’s the filmy light above the mountains that weds white snow and sky.  By the way, I dreamt last night she was half a woman, half a tree, and her hair was like a dead yewbough, which is as you know of a brown burnt-out colour, suitable to the popular conception of widows.  She stood, and whatever turning you took, you struck back on her.  Whether my widow, I can’t say:  she must first be my wife.  Oh, for tomorrow!’

‘What sort of evening is it?’ said the baroness.

‘A Mont Blanc evening:  I saw him as I came along,’ Alvan replied, and seized his hat to be out to look on the sovereign mountain again.  They touched hands.  He promised to call in the forenoon next day.

‘Be cool,’ she counselled him.

‘Oh!’ He flung back his head, making light of the crisis.  ’After all, it’s only a girl.  But, you know, what I set myself to win! . . .  The thing’s too small—­I have been at such pains about it that I should be ridiculous if I allowed myself to be beaten.  There is no other reason for the trouble we ’re at, except that, as I have said a thousand times, she suits me.  No man can be cooler than I.’