Bertram Mitford

The steamer Mont Blanc was sweeping round the rather dangerous promontory just beyond La Tour de Peilz. The fine vessel was a brave sight as she sped arrowlike over the turquoise breast of Lake L man, her straight stem shearing up a great scintillating blade of water on either side, her powerful paddles lashing up a long line of creaming rollers, hissing and curving away in her wake. From stem to stern she was gay with bunting, for this was but her second trip after being laid up through the winter season, and there was a spick-and-span newness about everything, from the whiteness of her commodious hurricane deck to the dazzling glass and luxurious lounges of her airy and spacious saloon.