Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. Gerald’s gaze bored into hers. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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