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"Yes," she replied. "Please say that it will be fine to-morrow!"

"I have never seen an evening of better promise," returned Chayne, with a
smile at her eagerness. The brown cliffs of the Aiguille du Chardonnet
just across the glacier glowed red in the sunlight; and only a wisp of
white cloud trailed like a lady's scarf here and there in the blue of the
sky. The woman of the chalet came out and spoke to him.

"She wants to know when we will dine," he explained to Sylvia. "There are
only you and I. We should dine early, for you will have to start early";
and he repeated the invariable cry of that year: "There is so very little
snow. It may take you some time to get off the glacier on to your
mountain. There is always a crevasse to cross."

"I know," said Sylvia, with a smile. "The bergschrund."

"I beg your pardon," said Chayne, and in his turn he smiled too. "Of
course you know these terms. I saw you reading a copy of the 'Alpine
Journal.'"

They dined together an hour later with the light of the sunset reddening
the whitewashed walls of the little simple room and bathing in glory the
hills without. Sylvia Thesiger could hardly eat for wonder. Her face was


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