“I—­I have no ambition to be a novel writer,” he said, “so I have not made a study of heroines.”

“But you would have an ideal,” she persisted.

“I’m sure I—­I don’t—­that is, she would not necessarily be a heroine.  Unless, of course, it would require heroism to pose as an ideal for such a prosaic fellow as I.”

“To begin with, you would call her Clarabel Montrose or something equally as impossible.  You know the name of a heroine in a novel must be euphonious.  That is an exacting rule.  “It was an open taunt, and he could see that she was enjoying his discomfiture.  It aroused his indignation and his wits.

“I would first give my hero a distinguished name.  No matter what the heroine’s name might be—­pretty or otherwise—­I could easily change it to his in the last chapter.”  She flushed beneath his now bright, keen eyes and the ready, though unexpected retort.  Uncle Caspar placed his napkin to his lips and coughed.  Aunt Yvonne studiously inspected her bill of fare.  “No matter what you call a rose, it is always sweet,” he added, meaningly.

At this she laughed good-naturedly.  He marveled at her white teeth and red lips.  A rose, after all.  Guggenslocker, rose; rose, not Guggenslocker.  No, no!  A rose only!  He fancied he caught a sly look of triumph in her uncle’s swift glance toward her.  But Uncle Caspar was not a rose—­he was Guggenslocker.  Guggenslocker—­butcher!  Still, he did not look the part—­no, indeed.  That extraordinary man a butcher, a gardener, a—­and Aunt Yvonne?  Yet they were Guggenslockers.

“Here is the waiter,” the girl observed, to his relief.  “I am famished after my pleasant drive.  It was so bracing, was it not Mr. Grenfall Lorry?”

“Give me a mountain ride always as an appetizer,” he said, obligingly, and so ended the jest about a name.

The orders for the dinner were given and the quartette sat back in their chairs to await the coming of the soup.  Grenfall was still wondering how she had learned his name, and was on the point of asking several times during the conventional discussion of the weather, the train and the mountains.  He considerately refrained, however, unwilling to embarrass her.

“Aunt Yvonne tells me she never expected to see me alive after the station agent telegraphed that we were coming overland in that awful old carriage.  The agent at P——­ says it is a dangerous road, at the very edge of the mountain.  He also increased the composure of my uncle and aunt by telling them that a wagon rolled off yesterday, killing a man, two women and two horses.  Dear Aunt Yvonne, how troubled you must have been.”

“I’ll confess there were times when I thought we were rolling down the mountain,” said Lorry, with a relieved shake of the head.

“Sometimes I thought we were soaring through space, whether upward or downwards I could not tell.  We never failed to come to earth, though, did we?” she laughingly asked.