On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. "These writer chaps are queer birds. It is positively hateful to think of it. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. It's two hundred pounds. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. CHAPTER XXIX.
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