At Estes village the blond god handed her over to a twin
charioteer who would drive her up the mountain road to the
Inn that nestled in a valley nine thousand feet up the
mountain. It was a drive Fanny never forgot. Fenger, Ted,
Haynes-Cooper, her work, her plans, her ambitions, seemed to
dwindle to puny insignificance beside the vast grandeur that
unfolded before her at every fresh turn in the road. Up
they went, and up, and up, and the air was cold, but without
a sting in it. It was dark when the lights of the Inn
twinkled out at them. The door was thrown open as they
swung up the curve to the porch. A great log fire glowed in
the fireplace. The dining room held only a dozen people, or
thereabouts--a dozen weary, healthy people, in
corduroys and sweaters and boots, whose cleanly talk was all
about climbing and fishing, and horseback rides and trails.
And it was fried chicken night at the Inn. Fanny thought
she was too utterly tired to eat, until she began to eat,
and then she thought she was too hungry ever to stop.
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