By the time Lynde had changed his wet clothing, the rain had turned into
a dull drizzle, which folded itself like a curtain about the valley.
Mont Blanc, with its piled-up acres of desolation, loomed through the
mist, a shapeless, immeasurable cloud, within whose shadow the little
town was to live darkly, half blotted out, for the next four days.

Lynde spent the afternoon between his own chamber and the reading-room
of the hotel, wandering restlessly from one to the other, and not
venturing to halt at Mrs. Denham's door to inquire after Ruth. Though he
held himself nearly guiltless in what had occurred, Mrs. Denham's
rebuking tone and gesture had been none the less intolerable. He was
impatient to learn Ruth's condition, and was growing every moment more
anxious as he reflected on her extreme delicacy and the severe exposure
she had undergone; but he could not bring himself just then to go to
Mrs. Denham for information. He concluded to wait until he met her at
dinner; but Mrs. Denham did not come down to the table d'hote.

The twilight fell earlier than usual, and the long evening set in. Lynde
smoked his cigar gloomily at an open window looking upon the street. It
was deserted and dismal. Even the shop across the way, where they sold
alpenstocks and wood-carvings and knick-knacks in polished lapis, was
empty; in pleasant weather the shop was always crowded with curiosity-
mongers. The raw wind spitefully blew the rain into Lynde's face as he
looked out. "Quel temps de loup!" sighed a polite little French
gentleman, making his unlighted cigarette an excuse for addressing
Lynde. The wretched little French gentleman was perishing with a desire
to say a thousand graceful things to somebody, but Lynde was in no mood
for epigrams. He gave his interlocutor a light, and sheered off. In a
corner of the reading-room was a tattered collection of Tauchnitz
novels; Lynde picked up one and tried to read, but the slim types ran