Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. " "Unworthy, indeed!" sneered Mrs. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast.
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