And

curious were the thoughts and sensations that accompanied him. Most of

all, perhaps, was the half suggestion of some dim memory that he had

known this girl before, had met her somewhere, more—that she knew him.

For in her voice—a low, soft, windy little voice it was, tender and

soothing for all its quiet coldness—there lay some faint reminder of

two others he had known, both long since gone: the voice of the woman

he had loved, and—the voice of his mother.

But this time through his dreams there ran no clash of battle. He

was conscious, rather, of something cold and clinging that made him

think of sifting snowflakes climbing slowly with entangling touch and

thickness round his feet. The snow, coming without noise, each flake so

light and tiny none can mark the spot whereon it settles, yet the mass

of it able to smother whole villages, wove through the very texture of

his mind—cold, bewildering, deadening effort with its clinging network

of ten million feathery touches.

III

In the morning Hibbert realised he had done, perhaps, a foolish

thing. The brilliant sunshine that drenched the valley made him see

this, and the sight of his work-table with its typewriter, books,

papers, and the rest, brought additional conviction. To have skated

with a girl alone at midnight, no matter how innocently the thing had

come about, was unwise—unfair, especially to her. Gossip in these

little winter resorts was worse than in a provincial town. He hoped no

one had seen them. Luckily the night had been dark. Most likely none

had heard the ring of skates.

Deciding that in future he would be more careful, he plunged into

work, and sought to dismiss the matter from his mind.

But in his times of leisure the memory returned persistently to

haunt him. When he “ski-d,” “luged,” or danced in the evenings, and

especially when he skated on the little rink, he was aware that the

eyes of his mind forever sought this strange companion of the night. A

hundred times he fancied that he saw her, but always sight deceived

him. Her face he might not know, but he could hardly fail to recognise

her figure. Yet nowhere among the others did he catch a glimpse of that

slim young creature he had skated with alone beneath the clouded stars.

He searched in vain. Even his inquiries as to the occupants of the

private chalets brought no results. He had lost her. But the queer

thing was that he felt as though she were somewhere close; he knew she had not really gone. While people came and left with every day, it

never once occurred to him that she had left. On the contrary, he felt

assured that they would meet again.

This thought he never quite acknowledged. Perhaps it was the wish

that fathered it only. And, even when he did meet her, it was a

question how he would speak and claim acquaintance, or whether she would recognise himself. It might be awkward. He almost came to dread a

meeting, though “dread,” of course, was far too strong a word to

describe an emotion that was half delight, half wondering anticipation.

Meanwhile the season was in full swing. Hibbert felt in perfect

health, worked hard, ski-d, skated, luged, and at night danced fairly

often—in spite of his decision. This dancing was, however, an act of

subconscious surrender; it really meant he hoped to find her among the

whirling couples. He was searching for her without quite acknowledging

it to himself; and the hotel-world, meanwhile, thinking it had won him

over, teased and chaffed him. He made excuses in a similar vein; but

all the time he watched and searched and—waited.

For several days the sky held clear and bright and frosty, bitterly

cold, everything crisp and sparkling in the sun; but there was no sign

of fresh snow, and the ski-ers began to grumble. On the mountains was

an icy crust that made “running” dangerous; they wanted the frozen,

dry, and powdery snow that makes for speed, renders steering easier and

falling less severe. But the keen east wind showed no signs of changing

for a whole ten days. Then, suddenly, there came a touch of softer air

and the weather-wise began to prophesy.

Hibbert, who was delicately sensitive to the least change in earth

or sky, was perhaps the first to feel it.