It seemed very probable that once he had fixed on one he would adhere to it at any cost, and, perhaps, the more persistently if the course in question appeared inadvisable to his companions.

Weston did not pretend to be a great judge of character, but Kinnaird, who, it seemed, had held command in India, struck him as that kind of man.

His wife was a little, placid lady, whose bodily vigor and any resolution of character she might once have possessed had apparently evaporated under the Indian sun, and, as far as Weston had noticed, she invariably agreed with whatever was said.
When he waited on them at supper their talk was of the easier ascents in Switzerland, and in the mountains of his own land, whose names rang like music in his ears--the Striding Edge, the Great Gable Needle, and Saddleback Crags.

The Needle was certainly difficult to climb, but the Striding Edge on a still day was a secure promenade compared with some of the ledges along which he had seen western prospectors struggle with a month's supplies.
Supper, which as usual was prepared about six o'clock, had been over an hour or two, when, after waiting for an opportunity, he found Ida alone beside the lake.
"Can't you persuade these people not to go, Miss Stirling ?" he asked.
The girl smiled.
"No," she said, "I think you ought to recognize that." "Then can't you make some excuse, for stopping behind with Mrs.
Kinnaird ?" "Why ?" Weston made a little gesture.
"It will probably be a tough climb.

I'd rather you didn't go." Dusk was creeping up the hillside, but there was still a little light among the misty pines, and the girl flashed a quick glance at him.