Part 7 As they came back from that day’s climb—it was up the Mittaghorn—they had to cross a shining space of wet, steep rocks between two grass slopes that needed a little care. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. “I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter.
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