Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. He had offered to escort the young lady to England where she might seek refuge with her relations there, and proposed that the maid Yolande might serve Miss Charvill. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. I saw someone in there whom I have always hoped that I should never meet again. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. 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. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. .
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