A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. ’ Gerald shrugged. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. That’s one thing clear. ’ ‘You mean imbecile, don’t you?’ Gerald said, and turned his head to share the joke with Melusine. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. .
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