RODERICK HUDSON
"He went half an hour ago to climb a rock for a view."
"And his mother and—and the promessa—where are they?"
"They also are at Engelthal."
She had a pause. "What then are you all doing there?"
"What are you doing here?" Rowland returned.
"Counting the minutes till my week's over. I hate mountains; they always strike me as great rough lumps and chunks of Nature—hopeless confessions of her stupidity. I 'm sure Miss Garland likes them."
"She 's very fond of them, I believe."
"You believe—don't you know? But I think I 've given up trying to imitate Miss Garland," said Christina.
"You surely need imitate no one."
"Don't say that," she said gravely. "So you 've walked ten miles this morning? And you 're to walk back again?"
"Back again to dinner."
"And Mr. Hudson too?"
"Mr. Hudson especially. He's a great walker."
"You men are happy!" Christina cried. "I believe I should enjoy the mountains if I could do such things. It 's sitting still and having them scowl down at you. The Prince never walks. He only goes on a mule. He was carried up the Faulhorn in a palanquin."
"In a palanquin?"
"In one of those machines—a chaise-à-porteurs
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