’ Melusine could not regard this view with anything but scepticism. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. Then she came a few steps to meet him. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. It hardly served his interests. She twisted her fingers tightly. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse.
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