‘I am a wretched traveller, and I detest sight-seeing,’ he said languidly; ‘but I don’t wish to spoil other people’s pleasure. Suppose we make a little round before we settle down in our villa by the lake? Let us go to Fribourg and hear the organ, and then on to Berne for a day or so, and then to Interlaken. There I can rest quietly in my own rooms at the Jungfraublich, while you young people drive to Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald, and do any little climbing in a mild way which is compatible with the safety of your necks and bones generally; and then we can come straight back to Montreux. How would you like that, Madoline?’ ‘Very much, indeed, dear father. It will be a delight to me to go over the old ground with Daphne.’ ‘And you, Goring?’ ‘I am Lina’s slave—her shadow; true as the dial to the sun.’ ‘Papa,’ said Daphne, drawing her chair nearer to him, and with a coaxing look which no man but a father could have resisted, ‘it is so good of you to propose such a charming trip, and I shall enjoy it immensely; but would it be any way possible, now we are so near, to go to Chamounix, and get to the top of Mont Blanc; or, at least, part of the way up?’ ‘No, my dear. Quite out of the question.’ ‘But it is only a drive to Chamounix; and there is a diligence goes every morning.’ ‘Edgar can take you there next year, when you are married. I am too old for a drive of fourteen hours’ duration.’ Daphne looked miserable. Mont Blanc was the central point of all her desires. It irked her to be so near and not to reach the world-famous mountain. She looked at Edgar doubtfully. No; she could not realise the idea of coming back next year, alone with him. She had never been able to project her mind into that future in which they two should be one, bound by a sacred yoke, doomed to be for ever together. From any casual glance at such a future her mind always shrank away shudderingly, as from the dim memory of a bad dream. ‘I don’t believe I shall ever come to Switzerland again,’ she said discontentedly, when breakfast was finished and her father had retired to his own room to write letters. Madoline was sitting at work by an open window, silken water-lilies and bulrushes developing themselves gradually under her skilful fingers, on a ground of sage-green cloth. The tables were covered with books and miniature stands; the room was bright with flowers, and looked almost as home-like as South Hill; but before the evening Mowser and Jinman would have packed all these things, and despatched the greater part of them to Montreux, while the travellers went on to Fribourg in light marching order, which in this case meant about three portmanteaux per head. Some books must, of course, be taken, and drawing materials, and fancy-work, and a writing-desk or two, and camp-stools for sitting about in romantic places, and a good deal more, which made a formidable array of luggage by-and-by when Sir Vernon and his family were assembled at the railway-station.