“It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Perhaps I'd better open it now. "That's it!"—eagerly. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. ‘Help yourself, Hilary.
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