CHAPTER V.
A MARKED WOMAN We had come farther than was wise without a rest, but all the seats on the way were in full view of the hotel, and I had been irritated by divers looks and whisperings as we traversed the always crowded terrace.
Bob Evers, no doubt, would have turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to them.

I myself could pretend to do so, but pretence was evidently one of my strong points.

I had not Bob's fine natural regardlessness, for all my seniority and presumably superior knowledge of the world.
So we had climbed the zigzags to the right of the Riffelberg and followed the footpath overlooking the glacier, in the silence enjoined by single file, but at last we were seated on the hillside, a trifle beyond that emerald patch which some humourist has christened the Cricket-ground.

Beneath us were the serracs of the Gorner Glacier, teased and tousled like a fringe of frozen breakers.

Beyond the serracs was the main stream of comparatively smooth ice, with its mourning band of moraine, and beyond that the mammoth sweep and curve of the Theodule where these glaciers join.