To Lake George therefore we went, and stopped at the excellent hotel
at the terminus of the railway. We spent a good deal of our time on
the light little steamers that ply between that point and the road
to Ticonderoga. Somehow, the mountains mirrored in the deep green
water reminded me of Lucerne; and Lucerne reminded me of the little
curate. For the first time since we left England a vague terror
seized me. _Could_ Elihu Quackenboss be Colonel Clay again, still
dogging our steps through the opposite continent?
I could not help mentioning my suspicion to Charles--who, strange
to say, pooh-poohed it. He had been paying great court to Mrs.
Quackenboss that day, and was absurdly elated because the little
American had rapped his knuckles with her fan and called him "a
real silly."
Next day, however, an odd thing occurred. We strolled out together,
all four of us, along the banks of the lake, among woods just
carpeted with strange, triangular flowers--trilliums, Mrs.
Quackenboss called them--and lined with delicate ferns in the
first green of springtide.
I began to grow poetical. (I wrote verses in my youth before I went
to South Africa.) We threw ourselves on the grass, near a small
mountain stream that descended among moss-clad boulders from the
steep woods above us.
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