We sit in a room foul with tobacco smoke and
the steam of a vile soup that everyone appears to be drinking. Everyone is comprehended by a party of three earnest and dogged-jawed German students, a bedraggled married couple of doubtful nationality, seven or eight Italo- Austrians who might be charcoal-burners breaking their journey across the mountains, two or three semi-official Dolomite guides, and ourselves. This not being Switzer- land, where the foreign fool is more generally humoured, we are looked at askance. My companion opens the window. We have a momentary view of glaciers opposite glittering in the moonlight, a lake in the valley sheer away thousands of feet below, the black massed forests : a brief draught of delicious icy air—but very brief. An ominous muttering arises amongst the soup-drinkers : public opinion is set dead against us. Quietly we shut the window and, finding a pack of greasy cards on one of the tables, play beggar-my-neighbour until further notice, i.e., until the arrival of information that beds are ready. We also are ready for beds. Sleep, however, is a little difficult. I am possessed by a cold horror of awakening at dawn and ploughing up that ultimate snow- field for the aforesaid view of all Italy and Austria. What makes things really so sickening is that the gentleman with the spiked stick, pleading a sudden lameness—with a sneer ready for us should we start making humbug excuses—had regretfully turned back at the first hut. He waved to us very cheerfully from a long way below.
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