ful that she so quickly froze again. "I am;
indeed I am," he responds. "No one could have himself better in hand
for the time being than I, and if a competition in morals were now
going on, I should certainly take the medal. But I cannot speak for
myself an hour in advance. I make a vow, as I have done so often
before, but it does not help me to know what I may be at before the
night is out."

When his disgust with himself was at its height he suddenly felt like
a little god. His new book had come into view. He flicked a finger at
his reflection in a mirror. "That for you!" he said defiantly; "at
least I can write; I can write at last!"

The manuscript lay almost finished at the bottom of his trunk. It
could not easily have been stolen for one hour without his knowing.
Just when he was about to start on a walk with one of the ladies, he
would run upstairs to make sure that it was still there; he made sure
by feeling, and would turn again at the door to make sure by looking.
Miser never listened to the crispness of bank-notes with more avidity;
woman never spent more time in shutting and opening her jewel-box.

"I can write at last!" He knew that, comparatively speaking, he had
never been able to write before. He remembered the fuss that had been
made about his former books. "Pooh!" he said, addressing them
contemptuously.

Once more he drew his beloved manuscript from its hiding-place. He did
not mean to read, only to fondle; but his eye chancing to fall on a
special passage--two hours afterwards he was interrupted by the
dinner-gong. He returned the pages to the box and wiped his eyes.
While dressing hurriedly he remembered with languid interest that Lady
Pippinworth was staying in the same hotel.

There were a hundred or more at dinner, and they were all saying the
same thing: "Where have you been to-day?" "Really! but the lower path
is shadier." "Is this your first visit?" "The glacier is very nice."
"Were you caught in the rain?" "The view from the top is very nice."
"After all, the rain lays the dust." "They give you two sweets at
Bad-Platten and an ice on Sunday." "The sunset is very nice." "The
poulet is very nice." The hotel is open during the summer months only,
but probably the chairs in the dining-room and the knives and forks in
their basket make these remarks to each other every evening throughout
the winter.

Being a newcomer, Tommy had not been placed beside either of his
friends, who sat apart "b