There was a gentle rustling of skirts. In the first place, Mrs. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. Seems Enschede's daughter ran away and left him, and he's combing the islands in search of her. 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. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. One gets a lot more fun married. She would have to leave very soon. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. To think of him as loving her would make all that different.
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