Doris had indignantly repudiated the possibility. She was aware that Mrs. Brutt's seemingly generous offer was rather a trial to her parents; neither of them caring to be thus indebted to a comparative stranger. But she was frantic to accept; and she overbore all opposition. She was so fond of Mrs. Brutt. She would enjoy herself most awfully. It would be so frightfully disappointing to give it up. She couldn't—she really couldn't!—lose the delight. In the end she overcame or swept away all opposition; and leave was practically given for her to stay, within reasonable limits, as long as Mrs. Brutt might wish. The idea that her friend's fascinations might wane on a closer acquaintance seemed to the girl absurd; till close acquaintance had lasted a few days. Then she began to realise that the agreeable widow, to whom she might escape for an hour's relief from home-frets, and the manager of a tête-à-tête trip abroad, were different beings. Not that Mrs. Brutt meant to be different. She was simply now her natural self. Hers was essentially a self-centred nature; and she had a temper, not under good control. She expected unlimited attentions from those around; and she expected, as a matter of course, that Doris's will should always yield to her own. Their tastes were in opposition, to begin with. Doris, young and active, wanted to go everywhere, to see everything. Mrs. Brutt had done it all before, and had no wish to do it all again. She cared not a rap for scenery, though given to piling on ecstatic adjectives. All that she really wanted was—a host of new acquaintances, with herself for their centre. They had travelled direct to Geneva, spending a week there; and they had now been over a week at Bex. On their arrival at the former place, Mrs. Brutt had enlarged on coming excursions. Doris must go up the Salève—such a view! Enchanting! She must visit the Park Arian—magnificent tapestry! She must see the junction of the two rivers—absolutely a unique spectacle! But day after day slipped by, and nothing was done. Each morning something prevented action. The weather was wrong; or shopping claimed attention; or Mrs. Brutt was tired,—so sorry, but really quite unequal. And she was mistress of the situation. Doris, by this time painfully conscious of her obligations, could say nothing. She would gladly have gone alone, having pluck enough, despite useless school-room French. But Mrs. Winton had exacted from her a reluctant promise to attempt no solitary excursions; and her hands were tied. Here in Bex it was the same. Mrs. Brutt talked about a day in Montreux, a trip to Lausanne, boating on the lake; but a week was over, and they had done nothing. Soon they would leave for a little mountain village, where rooms had been secured.