with his back to the Alpine chain, which this morning was brilliant
and distinct, and a newspaper, unfolded, in his lap. He was not
reading, however; he was staring before him in gloomy contemplation.
I don't know whether I recognised first the newspaper or its
proprietor; one, in either case, would have helped me to identify the
other. One was the New York Herald; the other, of course, was Mr.
Ruck. As I drew nearer, he transferred his eyes from the stony,
high-featured masks of the gray old houses on the other side of the
terrace, and I knew by the expression of his face just how he had
been feeling about these distinguished abodes. He had made up his
mind that their proprietors were a dusky, narrow-minded, unsociable
company; plunging their roots into a superfluous past. I
endeavoured, therefore, as I sat down beside him, to suggest
something more impersonal.

"That's a beautiful view of the Alps," I observed.

"Yes," said Mr. Ruck, without moving, "I've examined it. Fine thing,
in its way--fine thing. Beauties of nature--that sort of thing. We
came up on purpose to look at it."

"Your ladies, then, have been with you?"

"Yes; they are just walking round. They're awfully restless. They
keep saying I'm restless, but I'm as quiet as a sleeping child to
them. It takes," he added in a moment, drily, "the form of
shopping."

"Are they shopping now?"