in the hall there was light and bustle; people were already arriving from the other hotels and chalets, their costumes hidden beneath many wraps. groups of men in evening dress stood about smoking, talking “snow” and “skiing.” the band was tuning up. the claims of the hotel-world clashed about him faintly as of old. at the big glass windows of the verandah, peasants stopped a moment on their way home from the cafe to peer. hibbert thought laughingly of that conflict he used to imagine. he laughed because it suddenly seemed so unreal. he belonged so utterly to nature and the mountains, and especially to those desolate slopes where now the snow lay thick and fresh and sweet, that there was no question of a conflict at all. the power of the newly fallen snow had caught him, proving it without effort. out there, upon those lonely reaches of the moonlit ridges, the snow lay ready — masses and masses of it — cool, soft, inviting. he longed for it. it awaited him. he thought of the intoxicating delight of skiing in the moonlight....
thus, somehow, in vivid flashing vision, he thought of it while he stood there smoking with the other men and talking all the “shop” of skiing.
and, ever mysteriously blended with this power of the snow, poured also through his inner being the power of the girl. he could not disabuse his mind of the insinuating presence of the two together. he remembered that queer skating-impulse of ten days ago, the impulse that had let her in. that any mind, even an imaginative one, could pass beneath the sway of such a fancy was strange enough; and hibbert, while fully aware of the disorder, yet found a curious joy in yielding to it. this insubordinate centre that drew him towards old pagan beliefs had assumed command. with a kind of sensuous pleasure he let himself be conquered.
and snow that night seemed in everybody’s thoughts. the dancing couples talked of it; the hotel proprietors congratulated one another; it meant good sport and satisfied their guests; every one was planning trips and expeditions, talking of slopes and telemarks, of flying speed and distance, of drifts and crust and frost. vitality and enthusiasm pulsed in the very air; all were alert and active, positive, radiating currents of creative life even into the stuffy atmosphere of that crowded ball-room. and the snow had caused it, the snow had brought it; all this discharge of eager sparkling energy was due primarily to the — snow.
but in the mind of hibbert, by some swift alchemy of his pagan yearnings, this energy became transmuted. it rarefied itself, gleaming in white and crystal currents of passionate anticipation, which he transferred, as by a species of electrical imagination, into the personality of the girl — the girl of the snow. she somewhere was waiting for him, expecting him, calling to him softly from those leagues of moonlit mountain. he remembered the touch of that cool, dry hand; the soft and icy breath against his cheek; the hush and softness of her presence in the way she came and the way she had gone again — like a flurry of snow the wind sent gliding up the slopes. she, like himself, belonged out there. he fancied that he heard her little windy voice come sifting to him through the snowy branches of the trees, calling his name... that haunting little voice that dived straight to the centre of his life as once, long years ago, two other voices used to do....
but nowhere among the costumed dancers did he see her slender figure. he danced with one and all, distrait and absent, a stupid partner as each girl discovered, his eyes ever turning towards the door and windows, hoping to catch the luring face, the vision that did not come... and at length, hoping even against hope. for the ball-room thinned; groups left one by one, going home to their hotels and chalets; the band tired obviously; people sat drinking lemon-squashes at the little tables, the men mopping their foreheads, everybody ready for bed.
it was close on midnight. as hibbert passed through the hall to get his overcoat and snow-boots, he saw men in the passage by the “sport-room,” greasing their ski against an early start. knapsack luncheons were being ordered by the kitchen swing doors. he sighed. lighting a cigarette a friend offered him, he returned a confused reply to some question as to whether he could join their party in the morning. it seemed he did not hear it properly. he passed through the outer vestibule between the double glass doors, and went into the night.
the man who asked the question watched him go, an expression of anxiety momentarily in his eyes.
“don’t think he heard you,” said another, laughing. “you’ve got to shout to hibbert, his mind’s so full of his work.”
“he works too hard,” suggested the first, “full of queer ideas and dreams.”
but hibbert’s silence was not rudeness. he had not caught the invitation, that was all. the call of the hotel-world had faded. he no longer heard it. another wilder call was sounding in his ears.
for up the street he had seen a little figure moving. close against the shadows of the baker’s shop it glided — white, slim, enticing.
