they'll write and tell me--one of these days, when they've got
nothing else to do. I didn't get a blessed letter this morning; I
suppose they think I'm having such a good time over here it's a pity
to disturb me. If I could attend to business for about half an hour,
I'd find out something. But I can't, and it's no use talking. The
state of my health was never so unsatisfactory as it was about five
o'clock this morning."

"I am very sorry to hear that," I said, "and I recommend you strongly
not to think of business."

"I don't," Mr. Ruck replied. "I'm thinking of cathedrals; I'm
thinking of the beauties of nature. Come," he went on, turning round
on the bench and leaning his elbow on the parapet, "I'll think of
those mountains over there; they ARE pretty, certainly. Can't you
get over there?"

"Over where?"

"Over to those hills. Don't they run a train right up?"

"You can go to Chamouni," I said. "You can go to Grindelwald and
Zermatt and fifty other places. You can't go by rail, but you can
drive."

"All right, we'll drive--and not in a one-horse concern, either.
Yes, Chamouni is one of the places we put down. I hope there are a
few nice shops in Chamouni." Mr. Ruck spoke with a certain quickened
emphasis, and in a tone more explicitly humorous than he commonly
employed. I thought he was excited, and yet he had not the