He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. But, after all, it will be different. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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