“I don’t know; he doesn’t seem able to make any. His great idea was to get to Geneva, but now that he has got here he doesn’t seem to see the point. It’s the effect of bad health. He used to be so bright and natural, but now he’s quite subdued. It’s about time he should improve, anyway. We went out last night to look at the jewellers’ windows—in that street behind the hotel. I had always heard of those jewellers’ windows. We saw some lovely things, but it didn’t seem to rouse father. He’ll get tired of Geneva sooner than he did of Paris.” “Ah,” said I, “there are finer things here than the jewellers’ windows. We’re very near some of the most beautiful scenery in Europe.” “I suppose you mean the mountains. Well, I guess we’ve seen plenty of mountains at home. We used to go to the mountains every summer. We’re familiar enough with the mountains. Aren’t we, mother?” my young woman demanded, appealing to Mrs. Ruck, who, with her husband, had drawn near again. “Aren’t we what?” inquired the elder lady. “Aren’t we familiar with the mountains?” “Well, I hope so,” said Mrs. Ruck. Mr. Ruck, with his hands in his pockets, gave me a sociable wink. “There’s nothing much you can _tell_ them!” The two ladies stood face to face a few moments, surveying each other’s garments. Then the girl put her mother a question. “Don’t you want to go out?” “Well, I think we’d better. We’ve got to go up to that place.” “To what place?” asked Mr. Ruck. “To that jeweller’s—to that big one.” “They all seemed big enough—they were _too_ big!” And he gave me another dry wink. “That one where we saw the blue cross,” said his daughter. “Oh come, what do you want of that blue cross?” poor Mr. Ruck demanded. “She wants to hang it on a black velvet ribbon and tie it round her neck,” said his wife. “A black velvet ribbon? Not much!” cried the young lady. “Do you suppose I’d wear that cross on a black velvet ribbon? On a nice little gold chain, if you please—a little narrow gold chain like an old-fashioned watch-chain. That’s the proper thing for that blue cross. I know the sort of chain I mean; I’m going to look for one. When I want a thing,” said Miss Ruck with decision, “I can generally find it.” “Look here, Sophy,” her father urged, “you don’t want that blue cross.” “I do want it—I happen to want it.” And her light laugh, with which she glanced at me, was like the flutter of some gage of battle. The grace of this demonstration, in itself marked, suggested that there were various relations in which one might stand to Miss Ruck; but I felt that the sharpest of the strain would come on the paternal. “Don’t worry the poor child,” said her mother. She took it sharply up. “Come on, mother.” “We’re going to look round a little,” the elder lady explained to me by way of taking leave.