ghter would re-assert herself; poppa
re-entered an _interieur_ darkened by a thunder-cloud on the brow of his
Aunt Caroline; and we started.

It was some time before Mr. Mafferton interfered in the least with the
Engadine. He seemed wrapped in a cloud of vain imaginings, sprung,
obviously, from poppa's ill-considered request. I understood his
emotions and carefully respected his silence. I was unwilling to be
instructed about the Engadine either botanically or geologically--it was
more agreeable not to know the names of the lovely little foreign
flowers, and quite pleasant enough that every turn in the road showed us
a white mountain or a purple one without having to understand what it
was made of. Besides, I particularly did not wish to precipitate
anything, and there are moments when a mere remark about the weather
will do it. I had been suffering a good deal from my conscience since
Mrs. Portheris had told me that poppa had written to Arthur--I didn't
mind him enduring unnumbered pangs of hope deferred, but it was quite
another thing that he should undergo the unnecessary martyrdom of
imagining that he had been superseded by Dicky Dod. On reflection, I
thought it would be safer to start Mr. Mafferton on the usual lines, and
I nerved myself to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the
prehistoric appearance of these lovely mountains.

"I am glad," he responded absently, "that you admire my favourite Alps."
Nothing more. I tried to prick him to the consideration of the scenery
by asking him which were his favourite Alps, but this also came to
nothing. Having acknowledged his approval of the Alps, he seemed willing
to let them go unadorned by either fact or fancy. I offered him
sandwiches, but he seemed to prefer his moustache. Presently he roused
himself.

"I'm afraid you must think me very uninteresting, Miss Wick," he said.

"Dear me, no," I replied. "On the contrary, I think you are a lovely
type."

"Type of an Englishman?" Mr. Mafferton was not displeased.

"Type of some Englishmen. You would not care to represent the--ah,
commercial classes?"

"If I had been born in that station," replied Mr. Mafferton modestly, "I
should be very glad to represent them. But I should _not_ care to be a
Labour candidate."

"It wouldn't be very appropriate, would it?" I suggested. "But do you
ever mean to run for anything, really?"

"Certainly not," Mr. Mafferton replied, with slight resentment. "In our
family w