It was entitled "The Alps in 1864." She knew the book by repute and was surprised to find it in her father's hands.

She was surprised still more that he should have been at so much pains to conceal the title from her notice.

After all, what could it matter?
she wondered.
Sylvia lay deep in misery that night.

Her father had failed her utterly.
All the high hopes with which she had set out from Chamonix had fallen, all the rare qualities with which her dreams had clothed him as in shining raiment must now be stripped from him.

She was not deceived.
Parminter, Barstow, Garratt Skinner--there was one "deep fellow" in that trio, but it was neither Barstow nor Parminter.