The Berner Hof pleased Sir Vernon by its spaciousness and air of English comfort, but it impressed Daphne as an hotel which would have been more in keeping with Liverpool or Manchester. ‘I had quite made up my mind that in Switzerland we should stop at wooden _châlets_ perched upon mountain ledges, with an impending avalanche always in view, and the “_Ranz des Vaches_” sounding in the distance all day long.’ ‘There are such hostelries,’ answered Gerald; ‘but I think, if you found yourself at one of them, you would be rather inclined to wish yourself at the Berner Hof, or the Beau Rivage.’ Next day was the first Tuesday in the month, and the occasion of the monthly market, a grand assemblage of small dealers from the adjacent country. They all went out directly after breakfast, and proceeded straight to the noble central street, a mile in length, which under various names pierces the town in a straight unbroken line from one end to the other. Very old and quaint are the houses in this long street, many of them built over arcades, under which the foot-passengers walk, and within whose arches the market-people set out their stalls. The drapery stalls, gay with many-coloured handkerchiefs fluttering in the summer air; the jewellers’ stalls, all twinkling and flashing with that silver trinketry which is a national institution, chains of endless length, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, glittering in the sun; stalls loaded with fruits and vegetables; stalls of gaudy-coloured pottery, jugs and jars of queerest, quaintest shapes; and up and down the stony street cows and oxen being led perpetually, meek, submissive, gentle, beautiful, in an endless procession; while every here and there under a countryman’s cart the patient dogs of burden lay at rest, placid but watchful, faithful guardians of the master’s property. It was a scene of picturesque and national life which pleased Daphne immensely. She had never seen such a market before, never seen so long a street, except the monotonous length of a Parisian boulevard as she was being jolted along in a fly from station to station. Here she saw the people in their national costume. Here Switzerland seemed really Swiss. She flew from stall to stall, admiring, selecting, bargaining, wanting to buy a barrowful of red and orange pots and pans. ‘They would look so lovely in the corridor at South Hill, on high brackets,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid the brackets would have to be very high,’ answered Lina, smiling at her. ‘I suppose you mean that for a sneer,’ retorted Daphne, ‘but if Mr. Burne Jones, or Mr. Rosetti, or Mr. Morris were to say those pots and pans were the right thing, there would be an eruption of them over the walls of every fashionable room in England. I consider them positively lovely. And as for the silver chains, I shall never live without one round my neck.’