"Monsieur, I told you your friend was not greatly to be pitied. I tell
you now something more. The guide we brought down with him from the
Glacier des Nantillons a fortnight back--all this fortnight I have been
envying him--yes, yes, even though he kicked the snow with his feet for a
little before he died. It is better to do so than to lead mules up to the
Montanvert."
"I am sorry," said Chayne.
The words sounded, as he spoke them, lame enough and trivial in the face
of Michel's passionate lament. But they had an astonishing effect upon
the guide. The flow of words stopped at once, he looked at his young
patron almost whimsically and a little smile played about his mouth.
"'I am sorry,'" he repeated. "Those were the words the young lady spoke
to you on the steps of the hotel. You have spoken with her, monsieur, and
thanked her for them?"
"No," said Chayne, and there was much indifference in his voice.
Women had, as yet, not played a great part in Chayne's life. Easy to
please, but difficult to stir, he had in the main just talked with them
by the way and gone on forgetfully: and when any one had turned and
walked a little of his road beside him, she had brought to him no
thought that here might be a companion for all the way. His indifference
roused Michel to repeat, and this time unmistakably, the warning he had
twice uttered.
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