As he went off to sleep, the jolting racket
of the train mellowed itself into a murmur of "tomorrow
or next day, tomorrow or next day," in his ears.
CHAPTER XI
FROM their windows, high up and at the front of the
big hotel, Julia looked down upon the Lake of Geneva.
She was in such haste to behold it that she had not so
much as unbuttoned her gloves; she held her muff still
in her hand. After one brief glance, she groaned aloud
with vexation.
Beyond the roadway, and the deserted miniature pier of Territet,
both dishevelled under melting and mud-stained snow,
there lay a patch of water--motionless, inconspicuous,
of a faded drab colour--which at some small distance
out vaguely ceased to look like water and, yet a little
further out, became part and parcel of the dull grey mist.
Save for the forlorn masts of a couple of fishing boats,
beached under the shelter of the pier, there was no proof
in sight that this was a lake at all. It was as uninspiring
to the eye as a pool of drippings from umbrellas in a porch.
While her uncle and brother occupied themselves with
the luggage being brought up by the porters, she opened
a window and stepped out upon the tiny balcony.
A flaring sign on the inner framework of this balcony
besought her in Swiss-French, in the interests of order,
not to feed the birds.
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