“Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. “Mr. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Look at me. . The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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