personality of the girl--the Girl of the Snow. She somewhere was waiting
for him, expecting him, calling to him softly from those leagues of
moonlit mountain. He remembered the touch of that cool, dry hand; the
soft and icy breath against his cheek; the hush and softness of her
presence in the way she came and the way she had gone again--like a
flurry of snow the wind sent gliding up the slopes. She, like himself,
belonged out there. He fancied that he heard her little windy voice come
sifting to him through the snowy branches of the trees, calling his name
... that haunting little voice that dived straight to the centre of his
life as once, long years ago, two other voices used to do....

But nowhere among the costumed dancers did he see her slender figure. He
danced with one and all, distrait and absent, a stupid partner as each
girl discovered, his eyes ever turning towards the door and windows,
hoping to catch the luring face, the vision that did not come ... and at
length, hoping even against hope. For the ball-room thinned; groups left
one by one, going home to their hotels and chalets; the band tired
obviously; people sat drinking lemon-squashes at the little tables, the
men mopping their foreheads, everybody ready for bed.

It was close on midnight. As Hibbert passed through the hall to get his
overcoat and snow-boots, he saw men in the passage by the "sport-room,"
greasing their ski against an early start. Knapsack luncheons were being
ordered by the kitchen swing doors. He sighed. Lighting a cigarette a
friend offered him, he returned a confused reply to some question as to
whether he could join their party in the morning. It seemed he did not
hear it properly. He passed through the outer vestibule between the
double glass doors, and went into the night.

The man who asked the question watched him go, an expression of anxiety