“We are not tired of Geneva,” said Miss Denham; “it would be ingratitude to Mr. Lynde to admit that; but we are longing for a nearer view of the Mont Blanc groups.  One ought to know them pretty well after six weeks’ constant looking at them; but the changes in the atmosphere make any certain intimacy impossible at this distance.  New ranges loom up and disappear, the lines alter almost every hour.  Were you ever at the Isles of Shoals, Mr. Flemming?”

Flemming started slightly.  Since Miss Denham entered the room, he had given scarcely a thought to Lynde’s dismal suspicions.  Once or twice they had come into Flemming’s mind, but he had promptly dismissed them.  The girl’s inquiry concerning a locality in New Hampshire suddenly recalled them, and recalled the motive with which Lynde had planned the dinner.  Flemming flushed with vexation to think he had lent himself to the arrangement.

“I have spent parts of two summers at the Isles of Shoals,” he said.

“Then you must have observed the singular changes that seem to take place on the mainland, seen from Appledore.  The mirage on the Rye and Newcastle coasts—­is it Newcastle?—­sometimes does wonderful things.  Frequently you see great cities stretching along the beach, some of the houses rising out of the water, as in Venice, only they are gloomy, foggy cities, like London, and not like Venice.  Another time you see ships sailing by upside down; then it is a chain of hills, with peaks and projections that melt away under your eyes, leaving only the flat coast-line.”

Flemming had seen all this, and seemed again to see it through the clear medium of the young girl’s words.  He had witnessed similar optical illusions in the deserts, also, which he described to her.  Then he remembered a curious trick of refracted light he had once seen in the sunrise on Mount Washington, and suddenly he found himself asking Miss Denham if she were acquainted with the interior of New Hampshire.  Flemming had put the interrogation without a shadow of design; he could have bitten his tongue off an instant after.

Lynde, who had been discussing with Mrs. Denham the details of the next day’s journey, looked up quickly and sent Flemming a rapid scowl.

“I have never been inland,” was Miss Denham’s answer.  “My acquaintance with New Hampshire is limited to the Shoals and the beaches at Rye and Hampton.  In visiting the Alps first I have, I know, been very impolite to the mountains and hills of my own land.”

“Ruth, dear, Mr. Lynde and I have been speaking of the conveyance for to-morrow; shall it be an open or a close carriage?”

“An open carriage, by all means, aunt.”

“That would have its inconvenience in case of showers,” said Lynde; “when April takes her departure from the Alps, she is said to leave all her capriciousness behind her.  I suggest a partially closed vehicle; you will find a covering comfortable in either rain or shine.”