The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. It drives one mad at times. "I'll be back in a minute. . . The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face.
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