"Let's stop at his place on the Sonnenberg, then," said Molly, who
never took more than sixty seconds to make the most momentous
decisions, less important ones getting themselves arranged while
slow-minded English people drew breath.

Certainly, as we drove through the streets of Lucerne, we saw neither
mules nor donkeys, but Molly accounted for this by saying that no
doubt they were all at dinner. In any case, with the blue lake
a-glitter with silver sequins dropped from the gowns of those
sparkling White Ladies, the mountains; the shops gay and bright in the
sunshine, on one side the way, shadows lying cool and soft under the
long line of green trees on the other, who could take thought of
absent mules? Let them dine or die; it mattered not. Lucerne was
beautiful, the day divine.

When we were lunching on the balcony of the Winstons' private
sitting-room at the Sonnenberg, with mountains billowing round and
below us, I saw that there was something on Molly's mind for she was
_distraite_. Suddenly she said, "Before you talk to Herr Widmer about
your mule, don't you think that you had better decide absolutely upon
your route?"

"But, darling," objected Jack, "that is largely what he wants advice
about."

"He can't do better than take mine, then," said Molly. "Lord Lane,
_promise_ me you'll take mine and _no_ one's else."

"Of course I'll promise," I answered recklessly, for her eyes were