High Noon | Page 5

guy he had met at the Savoy, he panted up and slapped
Paul's shrinking back with his fat, white hand.
"Hullo, Verdayne! Just the man I'm looking for! I didn't know you were
in this part of the world. Hurry up with your breakfast and join me and
my friend, the Countess de Boistelle, in a spin around the lake. Perhaps
you know her already. No? That's easy arranged--she's a particular

friend of mine, and she's got a chum of her's staying here too, I guess.
Make up a foursome with us and I'll promise you this old place won't
be half slow. When it comes to making things hum, nobody's got
anything on the Countess."
"Damned bounder!" growled Paul under his breath; and aloud: "Thanks,
I have an engagement. Awfully sorry, and all that, you know." And he
rose, as if to end the interview.
"I'll bet you've got a date with that queen you were just talking to.
Verdayne, you're the foxy one. Well, I can't say you haven't got good
taste, anyhow, though she's a little too quiet for me."
"Talking with whom?" inquired Paul, in a cold voice.
"Why, that lady that just left here. She nearly ran into me getting
away."
"Schwartzberger," answered Paul, with great deliberation, as he folded
his newspaper, "I believe that a lively imagination is as necessary to the
ideal management of the pork-packing industry as to all other business
activities. Permit me to observe that I can predict for you no cessation
of the remarkable results you have achieved in your chosen
profession." And with a short nod he started down the path.
Schwartzberger's beady eyes blinked after Paul a moment.
"These Englishmen always do get up in the air over nothing," thought
the pork-packer, as he gazed after Paul with a puzzled look on the wide
expanse of his countenance. Then he turned his great bulk and waddled
ponderously into the hotel, in search of his particular friend, the
Comtesse de Boistelle.
Toward the landing on the lake Paul descended, with his heels biting
viciously into the gravel at every step.
"Confound these beastly people!" he growled. "Why are they allowed
to roam about the earth, making hideous the beautiful places." His soul

revolted at even the suggestion that he could have thought for any but
his beloved Lady--his Queen whom he had not seen for more than a
score of years, and would never, on this fair planet, behold again.
On a coign of vantage overlooking the steep slope the pale lady stood
with her face turned toward the Bürgenstock. She watched Paul as he
stalked angrily down the hillside, and in her mind compared him with
the monster she had just avoided. She gazed after him till he reached
the slip, where a small boat was ready for him; and she lingered on
while he stepped lightly into the skiff, picked up the oars, and rowed
away in the style an Eton man never forgets. Motionless she remained,
until he disappeared behind a fringe of larches that crept close to the
shelving shore. Then slowly, as with regret, she turned to resume her
stroll.
A faint colour had stolen into her cheeks; the wonderful eyes had
grown very bright and wistfully tender and deep. The rare old lace on
her bosom fluttered with her quickened breath, as softly she murmured:
"Ah! My entrancing one, now I have seen thee--and I understand!" And
the larches by the shore trembled as if in sympathetic emotion as the
gentle breeze echoed her sigh.
* * * * *
A half-hour later the big green touring-car spluttered on its noisy way
again; but its tonneau contained no partie carrée. A smartly clipped
poodle perched in the centre of the wide seat--on one side of him
lounged the shapeless green form of the pork-packer, on the other side
gracefully reposed the Comtesse de Boistelle.
And if the complacent admiring glances which Schwartzberger heavily
bestowed on the lady of his choice were perhaps too redolent of the
proprietorship in which a successful pork-packer might indulge, they
were at least small coins in the mart of love, which is Springtime in
Lucerne.
* * * * *

Up the lake Paul rowed briskly, working off his ill-humour in the sheer
exertion of his favorite sport. The splendid play of his powerful
muscles carried his light craft rapidly over the blue water, until he
reached a secluded little bay where he had often gone to escape from
troublesome travellers at the hotel. Beaching his skiff, he threw himself
at full length on the rocky shore, where he lay quite still, drinking in the
beauty of the prospect.
Occasionally the wind bore to him from some distant ridge or hidden
glen the tinkling of a cow-bell, as the herd