“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.”

“Really?” cried the girl.  “That’s charming!”

“Delightful!” said the mother, moved by the same impulse, apparently.

“Yes,” said Jeff.  “You ought to hear him talk.  I’ll introduce him to you after breakfast, if you like.”

“Oh, we should only be too happy,” said the mother, and her daughter, from her inflection, knew that she would be willing to defer her happiness.

But Jeff did not.  “Mr. Whitwell !” he called out, and Whitwell came across the grass to the edge of the veranda.  “I want to introduce you to Mrs. Vostrand—­and Miss Vostrand.”

Whitwell took their slim hands successively into his broad, flat palm, and made Mrs. Vostrand repeat her name to him.  “Strangers at Lion’s Head, I presume?” Mrs. Vostrand owned as much; and he added:  “Well, I guess you won’t find a much sightlier place anywhere; though, accordin’ to Jeff’s say, here, they’ve got bigger mountains on the other side.  Ever been in Europe?”

“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Vostrand, with a little mouth of deprecation.  “In fact, we’ve just come home.  We’ve been living there.”

“That so?” returned Whitwell, in humorous toleration.  “Glad to get back, I presume?”

“Oh yes—­yes,” said Mrs. Vostrand, in a sort of willowy concession, as if the character before her were not to be crossed or gainsaid.

“Well, it ’ll do you good here,” said Whitwell. “‘N’ the young lady, too.  A few tramps over these hills ’ll make you look like another woman.”  He added, as if he had perhaps made his remarks too personal to the girl, “Both of you.”

“Oh yes,” the mother assented, fervently.  “We shall count upon your showing us all their-mysteries.”