Half past six on Friday morning and Constance appeared on the terrace; Constance in fluffy, billowy, lacy white with a spray of oleander in her belt--the last costume in the world in which one would start on a mountain climb.

She cast a glance in passing toward the gateway and the stretch of road visible beyond, but both were empty, and seating herself on the parapet, she turned her attention to the lake.

The breeze that blew from the farther shore brought fresh Alpine odors of flowers and pine trees.

Constance sniffed it eagerly as she gazed across toward the purple outline of Monte Maggiore.

The serenity of her smile gradually gave place to doubt; she turned and glanced back toward the house, visibly changing her mind.
But before the change was finished, the quiet of the morning was broken by a clatter of tiny scrambling obstinate hoofs and a series of ejaculations, both Latin and English.