” “Perhaps not,” she answered. "You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir," cried Mrs. “I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. Nor Jacques. “It was a phase,” she said. 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.
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