ignity of mountains. I had formulated the idea
that there should be world landscape-gardeners appointed, to work on a
grand scale, and alter hills or mountains which Nature had neglected
or bungled. But to-day, as we steamed down the long, narrow Lac de
Bourget, sitting shoulder to shoulder, the light breeze fluttering
butterfly-wings against our faces, I could not see that there was
anything for the most fastidious taste to alter, anywhere.

As the lake at Annecy had been incredibly blue, this lake was
incredibly green. No weekly penny paper in England, even in its
fattest holiday number, would have room enough to compute the vast
number of emeralds which must have been melted to give that vivid tint
to the sparkling water. It was as easy to see the inhabitants of the
lake having their luncheon at the bottom, on tables exquisitely
decorated with coloured pebbles, as it is to look in through the
plate-glass window of a restaurant. As our course changed, the
mountains girdling the lake and filling in the perspective, grouped
themselves in graceful attitudes, like professional beauties sitting
for their photographs. There were chateaux dotted here and there on
the hillside, and I no longer peopled them with myself and Helen
Blantock. I realised that if one had a palace on the Lake of Como or
Bourget, or any other romantic sheet of water, one could be happy as
an elderly bachelor, if one's days were occasionally enlivened by
visits from congenial friends, such as the Winstons and the Boy. No
wonder that Lamartine was happy at Chatillon, writing his Meditations!
I felt that a long residence on the shores of the Lac de Bourget would
inspire me to some modest meditations of my own, and I could even have
taken down a few memoranda for them, had I not feared that the Boy
would laugh to see my notebook come out.

I remembered Hautecombe, with its ancient Abbey, deep cream-coloured,
like old ivory or the marbles of the Vatican, glimmering among dark
trees, and mirrored in the lake so clearly that, gazing long at the
reflection, one felt as if standing on one's head. I pointed it out to
the Boy from a distance, on its jutting promontory, with the pride of
the well-informed guide, and talked of the place with a superficial
appearance of erudition. But after all, when he came to pin me down
with questions, my bubble-reputation burst. Not a date could I pump up
from the drained depths of my recollection, and in the end I had to
acc