"Quite. I had a vague idea that the Pomfrets and their niece were
somewhere in Switzerland."

"Vague idea!" cried the artist "Why, I told you all about it, and
growled for five or six hours one evening here because I couldn't go
with them."

"So you did," said Warburton, "but I'm afraid I was thinking of
something else, and when I started for the Alps, I had really
forgotten all about it. I made up my mind suddenly, you know. We're
having a troublesome time in Ailie Street, and it was holiday now or
never. By the bye, we shall have to wind up. Sugar spells ruin. We
must get out of it whilst we can do so with a whole skin."

"Ah, really?" muttered Franks. "Tell me about that presently; I want
to hear of Rosamund. You saw a good deal of her, of course?"

"I walked from Chamonix over the Col de Balme--grand view of Mont
Blanc there! Then down to Trient, in the valley below. And there, as
I went in to dinner at the hotel, I found the three. Good old
Pomfret would have me stay awhile, and I was glad of the chance of
long talks with him. Queer old bird, Ralph Pomfret."

"Yes, yes, so he is," muttered the artist, absently. "But Rosamund
--was she enjoying herself?"

"Very much, I think. She certainly looked very well."

"Have much talk with her?" asked Franks, as if carelessly.