y myself."

"I only wish there were something to form it round."

"But there isn't--except a few chocolate creams I bought in Aosta
because I respected their old age, poor things."

"Perhaps even decrepid chocolates are better than nothing. Let's give
'em honourable burial--unless you want them all to yourself, as you
did the chicken at the 'Dejeuner,' and the room at the Cantine de
Proz."

"Oh, you _must_ have thought I was selfish! But truly, I don't think I
am. It wasn't that. Only--I can't explain."

"You needn't," said I. "I was 'kidding'--a most appropriate treatment
for a man of your size. What I want is food, not explanations."

The chocolates, which proved to be eighteen in number, were fairly
divided, Boy refusing to accept more than his half. We each ate one
with distaste, because the celebrated "Right Spot" was not to be
pacified by unsuitable sacrifices; but presently it relented and
demanded more. Appeased for the moment, the Spot allowed us to
proceed, but incredibly soon it began again to clamour. We ate several
more chocolates, though our gorge rose against them as a means of
refreshment. Still Bourg St. Pierre, where we were sooner or later to
sleep, was far away, and for the third time we were driven to
chocolate. It was a loathsome business eating the remaining morsels of
our supply, and we felt that the very name of the food would in
future be abhorrent to us. The night had become unfriendly, the Pass a
_Via Dolorosa_, and the last drop was poured into our cup of misery at
Bourg St. Pierre.

We had wired from the Hospice for rooms, and expected to find the
little "Dejeuner" cheerfully lighted, the plump landlady amusingly
surprised to see the guests who had lately brought dissension into her
house returning peaceably together. But the roadside inn was asleep
like a comfortable white goose with its head under its wing. Not a
gleam in any window, save the bleak glint of moonlight on glass.

Joseph and Innocentina were behind us with their charges, whose stored
crusts of bread they had probably shared. I knocked at the doors No
responsive sound from within. I pounded with my walking stick. A thin
imp of echo mocked us, and, my worst passions roused by this
inhospitality falling on top of nine chocolate creams, I almost beat
the door down.

Two sleepy eyelid-windows flew up, and a moment later a little servant
who had served me the other afternoon, appeared at the door like a
frightened rabb