Blogs and book

The two young men wore their Argyleshire shooting
clothes--homespun knickerbockers and jackets, thick-ribbed hose knitted
by Highland lasses in Inverness. They carried a couple of hunting flasks
filled with claret, and a couple of sandwich boxes, and that was all.
Mary wore her substantial tailor-gown of olive tweed, and a little toque
to match, with a silver mounted grouse-claw for her only ornament.
It was a delicious morning, the air fresh and sweet, the sun comfortably
warm, a little too warm, perhaps, presently, when they had trodden the
narrow path by the Tongue Ghyll, and were beginning to wind slowly
upwards over rough boulders and last year's bracken, tough and brown and
tangled, towards that rugged wall of earth and stone tufted with rank
grasses, which calls itself Dolly Waggon Pike. Here they all came to a
stand-still, and wiped the dews of honest labour from their foreheads;
and here Maulevrier flung himself down upon a big boulder, with the
soles of his stout shooting boots in running water, and took out his
cigar case.


Pages:
329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353