They exchanged greetings with the clarinetist. ’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. “Nor am I now,” he answered. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented.
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