She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. ‘Then I am not mad in the least. Lucy knocked again. Her tone was icy. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy.
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