II.
Tommy’s dinner was not to be at his hotel. After meeting in the bar they sledded down into the village to a large old-fashioned Swiss taproom, a thing of woodwork, clocks, steins, kegs and antlers. There were other parties like their own, bound together by the common plan of eating fondue —a peculiarly indigestible form of Welsh rabbit—and drinking spiced wine, and then hitching on the backs of sleighs to Doldorp several miles away, where there was a townspeople’s ball.
His own party included Emily; her cousin, young Frank Forrester; young Count de Caros Moros, a friend of Rosemary’s—she played ping-pong with him and harked to his guitar and to his tales of machine-gunning his discontented fellow countrymen in Andalusia—a Cambridge University hockey hero named Harry Whitby, and lastl
