It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. 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. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. Then she burst into a peal of laughter.
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