And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. And, for a man who'll never see sixty again, he's in excellent preservation, I assure you. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. “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. Abruptly would come the end.
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