Helen had the best of reasons for rejecting this version of the story. Her perceptive faculties, always well developed, were strung to high tension in Maloja. The social pinpricks inflicted there had rendered her more alert, more cautious, than was her wont. She was quite sure, for instance, judging from a number of slight indications, that Spencer was deliberately avoiding any opportunity of making Bower's acquaintance. More than once, when an introduction seemed to be imminent, the American effaced himself. Other men in the hotel were not like that--they rather sought the great man's company. She wondered if Bower had noticed it. Despite his candid, almost generous, disclaimer of motive, there was an undercurrent of hostility in his words that suggested a feeling of pique. She climbed the rocky path in silence until Bower spoke again. "How do the boots go?" he asked. "Splendidly, thanks. It was exceedingly kind of you to take such trouble about them. I had no idea one had to wear such heavy nails, and that tip of yours about the extra stockings is excellent." "You will acknowledge the benefit most during the descent. I have known people become absolutely lame on the home journey through wearing boots only just large enough for ordinary walking. As for the clamping of the nails over the edges of the soles, the sharp stones render that imperative. When you have crossed a moraine or two, and a peculiarly nasty _geroell_ that exists beyond the hut, if we have time to make an easy ascent, you will understand the need of extra strong footwear." Helen favored him with a shy smile. "Long hours of reading have revealed the nature of a moraine," she said; "but, please, what is a _geroell_?" "A slope of loose stones. Let me see, what do they call it in Scotland and Cumberland? Ah, yes, a scree. On the French side of the Alps the same thing is known as a _casse_." "How well you know this country and its ways! Have you climbed many of the well known peaks?" "Some years ago I scored my century beyond twelve thousand feet. That is pretty fair for an amateur." "Have you done the Matterhorn?" "Yes, four times. Once I followed Tyndall's example, and converted the summit into a pass between Switzerland and Italy." "How delightful! I suppose you have met many of the famous guides?" He laughed pleasantly. "One does not attempt the Cervin or the Jungfrau without the best men, and in my time there were not twenty, all told. I had a long talk with our present guide last night, and found I had used many a track he had only seen from the valley." "Then----" A loud toot on a cowhorn close at hand interrupted her. The artist was a small boy. He appeared to be waiting expectantly on a hillock for someone who came not. "Is that a signal?" she asked. "Yes. He is a _gaumer_, or cowherd,--another word for your Alpine vocabulary,--the burgher whose cattle he will drive to the pasture has probably arranged to meet him here."