She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Pearls too! I mean it. “But—your people!” she gasped. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. . 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. Someone was coming out of the house.
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