He introduced her as his \"friend\" Lucy. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. —'It's all up with us,' says he; 'they've taken away our charter. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. I’ve never wanted to get away so much. He drove it into her missionary style, and though he was worried about hurting her, he could not stop himself from thrusting into her deeply.
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