be climbed, and usually filled up the halts, during which the elder members of the party sought to recover their wind, by photographic operations.
Reaching the foot of the final tower, we slung a rope down to the C. P. section of the party. They had been so overcome by sleep, tobacco, and a love of ease, that the ascent of the mauvais pas had not even been attempted! We then scrambled on to the highest point. We shouted to friends, who, we thought, might be watching us from the Mer de Glace; we congratulated the first lady who had ever stood on this grim tower: and then we listened to the voice of the charmer who whispered of hot tea and cakes, of jam and rolls, of biscuits and fruit, waiting for the faithful in the Pic Balfour gap. There we feasted sumptuously, and having bundled the cooking-stove and other luggage into the knapsacks, we hurried down the easy ledges to C. P., and were finally chased off the mountain by wind, rain, and hail.
It has frequently been noticed that all mountains appear doomed to pass through the three stages: An inaccessible peak—The most difficult ascent in the Alps—An easy day for a lady.
I must confess that the Grépon has not yet reached this final stage, and the heading of the last few pages must be regarded as prophetic rather than as a statement of actual fact. Indeed, owing to the great accumulation of ice and snow on the
