As a rule one seldom meets Englishmen at Chaudfontaine, and it
was quite by chance that Horace Graham found himself there. An
accident to a goods train had caused a detention of several
hours all along the line, as he was travelling to Brussels,
and it was by the advice of a Belgian fellow-passenger that he
had stopped at Chaudfontaine, instead of going on to Liege, as
he had at first proposed doing, on hearing from the guard that
it was the furthest point that could be reached that night.
Behind the hotel lies a sunshiny shady garden, with benches
and tables set under the trees near the house, and beyond, an
unkempt lawn, a sort of wilderness of grass and shrubs and
trees, with clumps of dark and light foliage against the more
uniform green of the surrounding hills, and it was still cool
and pleasant when Graham wandered into it after breakfast on
that Sunday morning, whilst all in front of the hotel was
already basking in the hot sunshine. He had gone to bed the
night before with the fixed intention of leaving by the
earliest morning train, for his first impressions of
Chaudfontaine had not been cheerful ones.
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