Clotilde likened his appearance to a strangled roar.

'Mothers and their children are too much for me!' he said, penitent for his betrayal of over-urgency, as he helped to wrap her warmly, and counselled her very mode of breathing in the raw mountain atmosphere.
'I admire you for knowing when to yield,' said she.
He groaned, with frown and laugh: 'You know what I would beg!' She implored him to have some faith in her.
The missiles of the impassioned were discharged at the poor English: a customary volley in most places where they intrude after quitting their shores, if they diverge from the avenue of hotel-keepers and waiters: but Clotilde pointed out to him that her English friend was not showing coldness in devoting herself to her child.
'No, they attend to their duties,' he assented generally, desperately just.
'And you owe it to her that you have seen me.' 'I do,' he said, and forthwith courted the lady to be forgiven.
Clotilde was taken from him in a heavy downpour and trailing of mists.
At the foot of the mountain a boy handed her a letter from Alvan--a burning flood, rolled out of him like lava after they had separated on the second plateau, and confided to one who knew how to outstrip pathfarers.

She entered her hotel across the lake, and met a telegram.
At night the wires flashed 'Sleep well' to her; on her awakening, 'Good morning.' A lengthened history of the day was telegraphed for her amusement.

Again at night there was a 'God guard you!' 'Who can resist him ?' sighed Clotilde, excited, nervous, flattered, happy, but yearning to repose and be curtained from the buzz of the excess of life that he put about her.

This time there was no prospect of his courtship relapsing.
'He is a wonderful, an ideal lover!' replied her friend.
'If he were only that!' said Clotilde, musing expressively.