that night there was excitement in the little hotel-world, first because there was a bal costume, but chiefly because the new snow had come. and hibbert went — felt drawn to go; he did not go in costume, but he wanted to talk about the slopes and skiing with the other men, and at the same time....
ah, there was the truth, the deeper necessity that called. for the singular connection between the stranger and the snow again betrayed itself, utterly beyond explanation as before, but vital and insistent. some hidden instinct in his pagan soul — heaven knows how he phrased it even to himself, if he phrased it at all — whispered that with the snow the girl would be somewhere about, would emerge from her hiding place, would even look for him.
absolutely unwarranted it was. he laughed while he stood before the little glass and trimmed his moustache, tried to make his black tie sit straight, and shook down his dinner jacket so that it should lie upon the shoulders without a crease. his brown eyes were very bright. “i look younger than i usually do,” he thought. it was unusual, even significant, in a man who had no vanity about his appearance and certainly never questioned his age or tried to look younger than he was. affairs of the heart, with one tumultuous exception that left no fuel for lesser subsequent fires, had never troubled him. the forces of his soul and mind not called upon for “work” and obvious duties, all went to nature. the desolate, wild places of the earth were what he loved; night, and the beauty of the stars and snow. and this evening he felt their claims upon him mightily stirring. a rising wildness caught his blood, quickened his pulse, woke longing and passion too. but chiefly snow. the snow whirred softly through his thoughts like white, seductive dreams.... for the snow had come; and she, it seemed, had somehow come with it — into his mind.
and yet he stood before that twisted mirror and pulled his tie and coat askew a dozen times, as though it mattered. “what in the world is up with me?” he thought. then, laughing a little, he turned before leaving the room to put his private papers in order. the green morocco desk that held them he took down from the shelf and laid upon the table. tied to the lid was the visiting card with his brother’s london address “in case of accident.” on the way down to the hotel he wondered why he had done this, for though imaginative, he was not the kind of man who dealt in presentiments. moods with him were strong, but ever held in leash.
“it’s almost like a warning,” he thought, smiling. he drew his thick coat tightly round the throat as the freezing air bit at him. “those warnings one reads of in stories sometimes...!”
a delicious happiness was in his blood. over the edge of the hills across the valley rose the moon. he saw her silver sheet the world of snow. snow covered all. it smothered sound and distance. it smothered houses, streets, and human beings. it smothered — life.
