The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. “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. She had behaved in every way perfectly. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. .
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