“‘Old in guile if not in years,’” quotes Charley. “I suppose you are right, Alice. I suppose I _am_ a fool. I have nothing in particular to offer, while Lanier is abundantly gifted with the substantial charms which win a woman’s heart—or at least her hand.” “If you think _that_,” cries Sylvia, “you may consider that I take back all I said last night.—Alice, I submit to you—” “Pray excuse me,” I say. “Settle it between yourselves. No good ever comes of introducing a third person into love-making or flirtation.” With this I walk away, and leave them to fight it out according to their usual custom. The result, as I afterward learn from Charley, is by no means definite. “I’m much where I was before,” he says. “Sylvia has promised nothing.” “And she never will promise anything,” I say, for his comfort. “If there is one thing that Sylvia is averse to, it is binding herself to anything. Perhaps she means to settle the matter according to romantic precedent. She will fall into a torrent or over a precipice, and reward whoever rescues her with the inestimable treasure of her hand.” “I shall look out for precipices and torrents, then, with great interest,” says Charley. “Lanier might easily break _his_ neck over one, but he will never rescue any one else.” These remarks are exchanged in a corner of the cave during breakfast—which is taken whenever, wherever, and however one likes. During its progress we begin to perceive that Eric was right—a cloud is settling on the mountain. It comes up around us like a white fog, so dense that one might cut a slice and take it home, Rupert observes. “Surely it will lift after a while,” we say, despondently, since few of us are not anxious for another glimpse of the great view; but Mr. Burnet shakes his head. “’Tisn’t likely,” he says. “There’s goin’ to be a change of weather shortly, and the Black’s gatherin’ clouds. There won’t be another clear view to be had from this peak fur a week.” “O Mr. Burnet!” cries Sylvia, in a tone of appeal, “I have set my heart on seeing the view again. I had not time to _take it in_ yesterday. Don’t you think, if we staid till noon, the cloud might lift?” “I’m afraid there ain’t any hope of it,” says Mr. Burnet, shaking his head regretfully. “Come, come,” says Eric, “if you knew how uncertain the view from the Black is, you would be grateful for what you have had without fretting over what you can’t get. We may as well go down, for we shall see nothing more.” With this ultimatum we are forced to be content; so, after a farewell to the cave, we ascend the peak to find the fog-like mist encompassing us on all sides. Even Craggy is shut off from our view; indeed, at a few yards distant every object becomes indistinct. “We are wrapped in a cloud,” says Sylvia, whom this fact partly consoles for the loss of the view. “So we see—and feel,” says Mrs. Cardigan, drawing a shawl around her, for the dampness of the cloud is exceedingly penetrating.