If the days were too long, the nights were too short. The nights seemed to run away with them, escaping their love and leaving behind a dull ache which sometimes became so intense that Erneste started to weep. The two of them had to get up at six, often no more than three hours sleep, because there were always a few guests who wanted their breakfast served at seven. At night they found it easy to forget their work and their subordinate status in an expanse of green meadow very like the Alpine pasture conjured up by the painter of a picture hanging in the breakfast room, a meadow backed by snowcapped peaks.