” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. As absurd as that you take this interest in my affairs. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. After a day or so, perhaps, we will go on one or two little excursions and see how good your head is—a mild scramble or so; and then up to a hut on a pass just here, and out upon the Blumlis-alp glacier that spreads out so and so. Age is set, impervious to innovations. You can trust me, Anna. Jackson’s.
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