At the little town
           of Vevey,
         in Switzerland,
         there is a
              particularly comfortable hotel.

    There are,
           indeed,
         many hotels,
           for the entertainment of tourists
            is the business
                   of the place,
         which,
           as many travelers will remember,
         is seated
               upon the edge
                   of a remarkably blue lake
          --a lake
             that it
                behooves every tourist to visit.

    The shore of the lake
          presents an unbroken array of
             establishments
                of this order,
           of every category,
         from the
           "grand hotel"
            of the newest fashion,
         with a chalk-white front,
         a hundred balconies,
           and a dozen flags
               flying from its roof,
         to the little Swiss pension
               of an elder day,
           with its name
               inscribed in German-looking
                  lettering upon a pink
                      or yellow wall
                           and an awkward summerhouse
                         in the angle
                               of the garden.

    One of the hotels
           at Vevey,
         however,
         is famous,
           even classical,
         being distinguished
               from many
                   of its upstart neighbors
               by an air
             both of luxury
                   and of maturity.

    In this region,
           in the month of June,
         American travelers
            are extremely numerous;
        it may be said,
           indeed,
         that Vevey
            assumes at this period
                   some of the
                 characteristics
                    of an American
                  watering place.

    There are sights and sounds
          which evoke a vision,
           an echo,
         of Newport and Saratoga.

    There is a flitting hither
           and thither of
         "stylish"
            young girls,
         a rustling of muslin flounces,
         a rattle of dance music
               in the morning hours,
           a sound of high-pitched voices
               at all times.

    You receive an impression
           of these things
         at the excellent inn
               of the
         "Trois Couronnes"
            and are
              transported in fancy
                   to the Ocean House
                  or to Congress Hall.

    But at the
         "Trois Couronnes,"
            it must be added,
         there are other features
             that are much
                   at variance
                 with these suggestions:
        neat German waiters,
           who look like secretaries
               of legation;
        Russian princesses
              sitting in the garden;
        little Polish boys
              walking about held
                   by the hand,
           with their governors;
        a view
               of the sunny crest
             of the Dent du Midi
               and the picturesque towers
                   of the Castle of Chillon.

    I hardly know
         whether it
            was the analogies
                  or the differences
             that were uppermost
                   in the mind
                       of a young American,
           who,
         two or three years ago,
           sat in the garden
               of the
         "Trois Couronnes,"
            looking about him,
         rather idly,
         at some
               of the graceful objects
             I have mentioned.

    It was
           a beautiful summer morning,
         and in
             whatever fashion the young American
                  looked at things,
         they must have seemed
               to him charming.

    He had come
           from Geneva the day
         before by the little steamer,
           to see his aunt,
         who was
              staying at the hotel
          --Geneva having been
               for a long time
                   his place of residence.

    But his aunt
        had a headache
         -- his aunt
            had almost always a headache--
           and now
             she was
                  shut up in her room,
           smelling camphor,
         so that
             he was at liberty
                  to wander about.

    He was
           some seven-and-twenty years of age;
        when his friends spoke
               of him,
           they usually said
             that he was at Geneva
         "studying."

    When his enemies spoke
           of him,
         they said
          --but,
           after all,
         he had no enemies;
        he was
               an extremely amiable fellow,
           and universally liked.

    What I should say is,
           simply,
         that when certain persons spoke
               of him
             they affirmed
               that the reason
                   of his spending
                       so much time
                   at Geneva was
             that he
                was extremely
                      devoted to a lady