'Hazel' does well enough when one is eighteen and beautiful, but when one is fifty and no longer beautiful, it is little short of absurd.

But if any one at fifty could carry such a name gracefully, it was Miss Hazel Wilder; her fifty years sat as jauntily as Constance's twenty-two.

This morning she was very business-like in her short skirt, belted jacket, and green felt Alpine hat with a feather in the side.

No one would mistake her for a cyclist or a golfer or a motorist or anything in the world but an Alpine climber; whatever Miss Hazel was or was not, she was always _game_.
Across from Miss Hazel sat her brother in knickerbockers, his Alpine stock at his elbow and also his fan.

Since his domicile in Italy, Mr.
Wilder's fan had assumed the nature of a symbol; he could no more be separated from it than St.Sebastian from his arrows or St.Laurence from his gridiron.