Free The Golden Peaks by Eleanor Farnes

bloomed on all the balconies.
    The proprietor came to meet them and take them into the d ining room. There were hearty greetings and exchanges. The men were Kurt and Georg to each other, and Georg produced an excellent wine which did not usually appear for guests. They discussed the prospects of the coming season, and Georg asked after the Fraulein Anneliese. He was a little curious about the girl with Kurt, and Kurt, seeing it, smiled a little and said:
    “Fraulein Dorrelson is taking Fraulein Anneliese’s place as she was far too busy to come this time.”
    “I believe the Fraulein has not been here before?” asked Georg of Celia, and she smiled as she answered him and admired his hotel. Miss, Mademoiselle, Fraulein—she was all of them in turn, and no doubt, at the Mirabella, she would be Signorina too. Quite suddenly, a freakish joy took hold of her. She thought back to the winter she had left in London, the grey and the cold and the damp; her anxiety and the strain. Now here she was in a world of sunshine and clear skies, of beautiful chalets and smiling politeness, of glittering snow peaks and soft green valleys, of spring flowers and cleanliness. She smiled so brilliantly across the table at Kurt that his eyes narrowed in surprise. “What is it?” he asked.
    “I am just realizing how much I owe you,” she said. “This job, this heavenly drive, this beautiful building which I would never otherwise have seen.”
    “You owe me nothing,” he said. “Anything I have done has been as much for my convenience as for yours.”
    Celia’s happiness faded a little. He was withdrawn. Something she had done or said had offended him, but what was it? Was it something in her manner? Was she being too forward, too frank with him, forgetting her position here? Had she, as once before, all unwittingly appeared to be rude in her impetuosity? She could not think so, but she could not be sure. She had no wish to appear too frank or in any way pushing; but she admitted to herself that she had difficulty in remembering to be suitably subservient. She must, apparently, make an effort to remember her place.
    So the rest of the beautiful drive was inclined to be silent, and they came to the Mirabella in the evening, as the sun went down in splendor over the lake.
    The M irabella was indeed a surprise to Celia . Gone was the simplicity and homeliness of the Rotihorn . This was expensive and exclusive and extrem ely grand, and everything that Celia encountered was in the tradition of the most de luxe hotels, from the man who ran to open the door of the car for them, the wide entrance hall, thickly carpeted and banked with flowers, and the gilt and mirrored lift; to the softly carpeted corridors with the discreet lighting, and the luxuriousness of the small, peach-colored nest into which she was shown by a small and deferential page.
    “Well, well,” she said to herself, in surprise, as she stood in the middle of the small room and looked about her. “This is a surprise. I had no idea that the Mirabella would be like this.”
    The same s mall page came back a little later, to conduct her downstairs for dinner. Kurt himself was standing in one of the flower-decked rooms they traversed, and he excused himself to the man with him, and intercepted her. He escorted her to the dining room, and looked about him. Immediately, the maître d’hôt el was at his side. Kurt asked for a table for Miss Dorrelson, and accompanied her to the one chosen.
    “ I leave her in your good hands, Luigi, ” said Kurt, an d gave Celia a brief bow, and left her. Luigi, never having seen Celia before but gathering from Mr. St. Pierre’s behavior, the impression that she was somebody important, magnanimously overlooked the f ac t that she was not in evening dress, and summoned a waiter by uplifting a finger. They proceeded to give her prompt and deferential service. Celia was amused—yet, in spite of hers el f, a little impressed. She wondered what change