It was nine o’clock next morning. Captain Verinder, with his hands clasped behind his back and downcast eyes, was pacing the courtyard of the hotel, which was ornamented with a double row of orange-trees and myrtles in green tubs, and had one end roofed with trellis work festooned with a vine, the leaves of which were now turning brown and golden, and under which were ranged a number of rustic seats interspersed with small marble-topped tables. Presently Luigi, for whom his uncle had been waiting, made his appearance, looking very sallow and cadaverous, while the dark half-circles under his eyes bore mute witness to the sort of night he had spent. “Don’t be afraid that I am about to reproach you for your insensate folly,” began his uncle. “Your conscience will do that far more effectually than any words of mine. Besides, I hold myself greatly to blame for bringing you here in the first instance, and it is perhaps no more than just that I should have to put up with the consequences equally with yourself. I have been going into cash matters this morning and find that when our hotel bill has been discharged, we shall have about fifteen pounds left, all told. Now, if you can reveal to me by what miracle of economy two people can contrive to spend a month in Switzerland without exceeding that amount, I shall be much obliged to you.” “Of course it can’t be done,” said Luigi sulkily. “There’s nothing for it but to go back home.” “Oh, indeed. And in that case how, pray, shall we excuse ourselves to Sir Gilbert Clare?” “Why need he know that we have returned? Why can’t we lie quietly by in London till the month has come to an end?” “For a very simple reason,” returned the Captain drily. “Have you forgotten that your grandfather looks to receive a letter from you every few days while you are away? Now, supposing you were to send him a note professedly written from Lausanne, or Geneva, with merely the London postmark on it, what would happen then?” “I had forgotten all about having to write to the old boy,” said Luigi with a smothered imprecation. “On the other hand,” resumed the Captain, “it would be madness to go to him and frankly confess our sins. He would never forgive either of us, and he would regard me, perhaps rightly, as being by far the bigger sinner of the two.” “In that case, what’s the best thing to do?” “Upon my word, I haven’t the ghost of an idea. It’s a bad lookout all round. Nowhere can I discern a way out of our quandary. But let’s to breakfast with what appetite we may. A hungry stomach is never a good counsellor.”