But the string of complaints went on. Her companion was presenting a new facet for her inspection. "Not even a stove to boil a kettle on. I really dare not use my spirit-lamp except on a stove. In these wooden houses, it is so fearfully dangerous. Not wood! Of course it is wood. I am certain of it. At all events, there's an immense amount of wood about. And I felt so bad in the night. I would have given anything for a cup of tea. These people never seem to think of the necessaries of life." "I suppose nobody comes here, except in hot weather; and so stoves are not needed." "Really, I don't see what that has to do with the question. Pray don't move those shoes, Doris!"—sharply. "I put them there to dry. They are damp still, after that rain of two days ago. The weather here is always in extremes. My room is an absolute oven this morning." "It is a perfect day," Doris could not help remarking. "Fearfully hot. I feel quite overpowered. There was such a noise in the night; people starting on excursions, and that sort of thing. These foreigners never mind what uproar they make. And just as I was dropping off, quite worn out, that wretched creature went blowing his horn all through the village. It is barbarous." Doris was silent. What could she say? "The food, too, is atrocious. I do not mind how plain the cooking is— nobody can be less particular than I am. But it is most essential that I should have things good. That extraordinary mess that comes round— I believe it is tinned meat, done up in gravy, and I never could eat tinned meat. It is that, I am sure, which has made me ill." "Shall I tell Mademoiselle that you want your breakfast in bed?" "And such a bourgeois set! Impossible creatures. Hardly a person one cares to speak to." "But they are nice and kind. And for six weeks what does it matter? We have the mountains," suggested Doris. "You might at least have the grace not to argue. Yes, you can tell them that I want my breakfast, and that I must have it at once. I am quite ill and exhausted. Tell them I must have freshly-made tea—not that boiled stuff that has stood for an hour. And mind you come to me after breakfast. I must know what you are going to do." Doris went downstairs more slowly than she had come up, feeling a little flattened. The message had to be given, and she gave it prettily, with apologies. Mademoiselle, like many Swiss girls, spoke English well, and she and Doris were on friendly terms. Breakfast was laid out of doors, upon a wide stone terrace, which adjoined the back of the hotel on a lower level than the front door. A good many people were already at the tables. Doris glanced at none of them, but made her way to the edge, where she stood to enjoy herself. Sharply away from the terrace fell the ground below; and deep down, out of sight, flowed a stream on its way to join another and larger torrent; whence both streams journeyed together to the Rhone.