He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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