way?"
"Mine," replied the Conneltons simultaneously. Then they both laughed and Sir Daniel added, dryly but good-humouredly, "Perhaps, my dear, we both had a little prompting."
"Very likely," Lady Connelton agreed indulgently.
"Very likely," repeated Kenneth. And once more his glance rested on Elinor for a moment.
She wanted very much to assure him that she had nothing to do with this business. But, remembering the disastrous results of her over-explaining herself to Rosemary Copeland, Elinor remained silent and had to let Kenneth think what he would.
The next morning they made an early start, for they wanted to break the journey at Innsbruck, so that they could have at least a glimpse of the beautiful provincial capital of the Tyrol.
It was a clear fine day, with already a hint of spring in the air. That indefinable impression of life stirring and sap rising, even though, as yet, nothing was putting forth green shoots.
Everyone appeared to be in an excellent humour, and if Kenneth felt some reservations about the inclusion of the von Eibergs in the party, he concealed the fact admirably, and even sparred rather amusingly with Ilsa.
At Innsbruck they stopped for lunch, and took some time to stroll along the celebrated Maria Theresian Strasse, with its matchless view of the snow-capped mountains which surround Innsbruck.
Much though Elinor would have liked to linger, there was no time to take more than a glance at the Imperial Castle and the famous Goldenes Dachl that fairy-tale structure with its fire-gilt copper tiles that make it look as though it is literally roofed with gold. For the days were still short and they wanted to complete the first stage of their journey by daylight.
So they drove on through the bright, clear afternoon, and came at length to Salzburg, that flower of all festival cities, where all the cultural streams of Eastern and Western Europe seem to have united.
And, as Elinor gazed for the first time on that lovely baroque city of the plain, surrounded by picture-book mountains, Rudi said, half smiling, half serious, "No wonder Mozart was born here. Heaven could not have chosen better."
The light was beginning to fade, but the outlines of the castle on the hill were still discernible. And, as they drove along by the hurrying, chattering Salzach, Sir Daniel explained to Elinor how, in former years, when the "Glockenspiel", or silvery peal of bells in the town, used to play a Mozart air at sunset, from far away in the castle on the hill, the organ would reply with the same air, so that the sound, borne faintly on the breeze, would seem like some celestial echo of harmony from another sphere.
"They don't do it any longer." Sir Daniel shook his head sadly. "Organ out of repair, I suppose, or something equally prosaic. But it was part of the magic of Salzburg—and one's youth."
"They'll mend the organ one of these days," Lady Connelton declared cheerfully. "There's no need to get melancholy and nostalgic, dear."
This annoyed Sir Daniel, who had been rather enjoying his little bit of melancholy nostalgia. But before he could reply sharply, Ilsa leaned towards him with her sweetest, most understanding smile and said, "Half the charm of Austria lies in its nostalgic memories, doesn't it?"
"Of course, of course," Sir Daniel agreed, and evidently thought Ilsa had justified her inclusion in the party.
Their hotel was situated in one of the superb seventeenth-century squares, and, as Lady Connelton remarked with satisfaction, it seemed that the comfort within equalled the picturesqueness without.
"I am all for beauty and fidelity to period until it comes to beds and plumbing," she confided to Elinor. "That's one point where I do find myself so much in sympathy with the American tourist. The hardy and uncomplaining British have been touring the Continent for generations, you know, and putting
up with exactly what they found there. But not so the Americans! When they started going abroad
"Mine," replied the Conneltons simultaneously. Then they both laughed and Sir Daniel added, dryly but good-humouredly, "Perhaps, my dear, we both had a little prompting."
"Very likely," Lady Connelton agreed indulgently.
"Very likely," repeated Kenneth. And once more his glance rested on Elinor for a moment.
She wanted very much to assure him that she had nothing to do with this business. But, remembering the disastrous results of her over-explaining herself to Rosemary Copeland, Elinor remained silent and had to let Kenneth think what he would.
The next morning they made an early start, for they wanted to break the journey at Innsbruck, so that they could have at least a glimpse of the beautiful provincial capital of the Tyrol.
It was a clear fine day, with already a hint of spring in the air. That indefinable impression of life stirring and sap rising, even though, as yet, nothing was putting forth green shoots.
Everyone appeared to be in an excellent humour, and if Kenneth felt some reservations about the inclusion of the von Eibergs in the party, he concealed the fact admirably, and even sparred rather amusingly with Ilsa.
At Innsbruck they stopped for lunch, and took some time to stroll along the celebrated Maria Theresian Strasse, with its matchless view of the snow-capped mountains which surround Innsbruck.
Much though Elinor would have liked to linger, there was no time to take more than a glance at the Imperial Castle and the famous Goldenes Dachl that fairy-tale structure with its fire-gilt copper tiles that make it look as though it is literally roofed with gold. For the days were still short and they wanted to complete the first stage of their journey by daylight.
So they drove on through the bright, clear afternoon, and came at length to Salzburg, that flower of all festival cities, where all the cultural streams of Eastern and Western Europe seem to have united.
And, as Elinor gazed for the first time on that lovely baroque city of the plain, surrounded by picture-book mountains, Rudi said, half smiling, half serious, "No wonder Mozart was born here. Heaven could not have chosen better."
The light was beginning to fade, but the outlines of the castle on the hill were still discernible. And, as they drove along by the hurrying, chattering Salzach, Sir Daniel explained to Elinor how, in former years, when the "Glockenspiel", or silvery peal of bells in the town, used to play a Mozart air at sunset, from far away in the castle on the hill, the organ would reply with the same air, so that the sound, borne faintly on the breeze, would seem like some celestial echo of harmony from another sphere.
"They don't do it any longer." Sir Daniel shook his head sadly. "Organ out of repair, I suppose, or something equally prosaic. But it was part of the magic of Salzburg—and one's youth."
"They'll mend the organ one of these days," Lady Connelton declared cheerfully. "There's no need to get melancholy and nostalgic, dear."
This annoyed Sir Daniel, who had been rather enjoying his little bit of melancholy nostalgia. But before he could reply sharply, Ilsa leaned towards him with her sweetest, most understanding smile and said, "Half the charm of Austria lies in its nostalgic memories, doesn't it?"
"Of course, of course," Sir Daniel agreed, and evidently thought Ilsa had justified her inclusion in the party.
Their hotel was situated in one of the superb seventeenth-century squares, and, as Lady Connelton remarked with satisfaction, it seemed that the comfort within equalled the picturesqueness without.
"I am all for beauty and fidelity to period until it comes to beds and plumbing," she confided to Elinor. "That's one point where I do find myself so much in sympathy with the American tourist. The hardy and uncomplaining British have been touring the Continent for generations, you know, and putting
up with exactly what they found there. But not so the Americans! When they started going abroad
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