"You'd be the first to get bored if you didn't live somewhere else--now
that the winter sports are over," he returned. "After all"--mundanely--"you
can't derive more than a limited amount of enjoyment from scenery, however
fine. Besides, you must know this route by heart."

"I do. But I love it! It's different every time I come up here. I
think"--knitting her brows--"that's what is so fascinating about the
Swiss mountains; they change so much. Sometimes they look all misty and
unreal--almost like a mirage, and then, the very next day, perhaps, they'll
have turned back into hard-edged, solid rock and you can't imagine their
ever looking like dream-mountains again."

Gradually, as they mounted, they left the verdant valleys, with their
sheltered farms and chalets, behind. The pine-woods thinned, and now and
again a wedge of frozen snow, lodged under the projecting corner of a rock,
appeared beside the track. The wind grew keener, chill from the eternal
snows over which it had swept, and sheer, rocky peaks, bare of tree or
herbage, thrust upward against the sky.

Presently, with a warning shriek, the train glided into a tunnel cut clean
through the base of a mighty rock. The sides dripped moisture and the icy
air tore through the narrow passage like a blast of winter. Ann shivered in
the sudden cold and darkness and drew her furs closer round her. She had a
queer dread of underground places; they gave her a feeling of captivity,
and she was thankful when the train emerged once more into daylight and ran
into the mountain station. Tony helped her out on to the small platform.

"Which is it to be?" he asked, glancing towards where a solitary hotel
stood like a lonely outpost of civilisation. "Tea first, or a walk?"