As the painter climbed the hill to the hotel he saw two figures on the road below; the one in white drapery looked severed by a dark line slanting across it at the waist.  In the country, he knew, such an appearance might mark the earliest stages of love-making, or mere youthful tenderness, in which there was nothing more implied or expected.  But whatever the fact was, Westover felt a vague distaste for it, which, as it related itself to a more serious possibility, deepened to something like pain.  It was probable that it should come to this between those two, but Westover rebelled against the event with a sense of its unfitness for which he could not give himself any valid reason; and in the end he accused himself of being a fool.

Two ladies sat on the veranda of the hotel and watched a cloud-wreath trying to lift itself from the summit of Lion’s Head.  In the effort it thinned away to transparency in places; in others, it tore its frail texture asunder and let parts of the mountain show through; then the fragments knitted themselves loosely together, and the vapor lay again in dreamy quiescence.

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.