Her English was halting. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. I suppose you came right out and asked him about his family?’ ‘Nothing of the sort. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers.
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