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“How unkind!” she exclaimed. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. “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. “Believe what, Michelle?” Lucy asked. “If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me.
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