mountains, veiled by the haze of dreamland, that one suffered a
constant succession of acute pangs in thinking that one would
probably never see them again, that one would need at least nine long
lives if one were to spend, say, even a month in each place.

Molly advised me not to be a spendthrift of my emotions, at this stage
of the journey, lest I should be a worn-out wreck before the grandest
part came, but the idea of husbanding enthusiasm did not commend
itself to me. Why not enjoy this moment, instead of waiting until the
moment after next? It was too much like saving up one's good clothes
for "best," a lower-middle-class habit which I have detested since the
days when I howled for my smartest Lord Fauntleroy frills in the
morning.

There were sweet villages where they made cheese, and where I could
have been happy making it with Helen Blantock; there were châteaux
with turret rooms where my book shelves would have fitted excellently;
but always we fled on, on, until at last, after two bewildering,
cinematographic days, we drove into the streets of that dignified and
delightful city, Bern.

It had not been necessary for us to pass through Bern; it was, in
fact, a few yards more or less out of the most direct path. We chose
this route simply and solely with the view of paying a visit to the
Bears. Molly had never met them; I had neglected them since childhood;
Jack looked forward to the pleasure of introducing them to his wife.

It was on our way to call upon the Bears, that destiny seduced me to
turn my head at a certain moment, and look into a shop window.
Suddenly the flame of my desire for the walking solo with a mule