First came John Bull, in the shape of a good natured, substantial, rather handsome man, apparently about thirty years of age. Then a lively, energetic little Frenchman, brisk and amusing, but with something unquestionably refined about him too. Next to him sat an exceedingly conceited young man, fair, and with good features, of which the most striking was exaggeratedly Roman nose. The nationality of this individual somewhat puzzled Miss Vere, as did also that of his immediate neighbour on the left, a very young man, a boy almost, whose handsome face and thoroughbred air rendered him the most attractive of the party. He and his Roman-nosed friend, soon proved themselves to be famous linguists, for in the course of less than half an hour, Marion heard them speak English, French, German, and a word or two incidentally, of Italian, each, so far as her ear could discover, with perfect ease and fluency. The rest of the party consisted of a frank-mannered young man, an English officer home from India; and a half clerical-looking individual, middle-aged and stiff, whom Marion decided and rightly, to be the tutor of the handsome cosmopolitan. Snatches only of their conversation reached her, but enough to amuse and interest her. The whole party was full of the anticipated enjoyment of the mountain expedition. As far as she could gather they intended starting that evening, driving a considerable distance and ascending to a certain point in time to see the sun rise. “Not that I care much about seeing the sun rise,” said the heavy Englishman, shivering at the thought; “but I daresay it will give us good appetite for breakfast.” “After which think you, my friend, to mount still higher?” asked the Frenchman, “or will you that while you repose we then ascend? In this case can we again find you as we recome.” “You don’t mean to say, De L’Orme,” interrupted the young officer, “that you ever dreamt of Chepstow’s getting to the top! By all means, leave him half way. We should certainly have to carry him the best part of the way up, and he’s no light weight, remember.” “Nonsense,” said the substantial Chepstow, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t get to the top.” “Not the slightest, my dear sir, why you should not both get to the top and stay there if you find it agreeable,” observed the Roman-nosed gentleman, with what seemed to Marion a rather impertinent sneer in his tone. Mr. Chepstow, however, being one of those happily self-satisfied, matter-of-fact people to whom the possibility that they are being made fun of, never occurs, commenced a ponderous speech to the effect that his friend had misunderstood him in supposing that he had any wish to settle for life on the summit of the “pic noir;” which speech unfortunately was destined never to be concluded, for the person to whom it was addressed, taking not the slightest notice of it, turned to his neighbour on the other side, “the handsome boy,” as Marion had mentally dubbed him, saying: