Absolutely unwarranted it was.  He laughed while he stood before the little glass and trimmed his moustache, tried to make his black tie sit straight, and shook down his dinner jacket so that it should lie upon the shoulders without a crease.  His brown eyes were very bright.  “I look younger than I usually do,” he thought.  It was unusual, even significant, in a man who had no vanity about his appearance and certainly never questioned his age or tried to look younger than he was.  Affairs of the heart, with one tumultuous exception that left no fuel for lesser subsequent fires, had never troubled him.  The forces of his soul and mind not called upon for “work” and obvious duties, all went to Nature.  The desolate, wild places of the earth were what he loved; night, and the beauty of the stars and snow.  And this evening he felt their claims upon him mightily stirring.  A rising wildness caught his blood, quickened his pulse, woke longing and passion too.  But chiefly snow.  The snow whirred softly through his thoughts like white, seductive dreams....  For the snow had come; and She, it seemed, had somehow come with it—­into his mind.

And yet he stood before that twisted mirror and pulled his tie and coat askew a dozen times, as though it mattered.  “What in the world is up with me?” he thought.  Then, laughing a little, he turned before leaving the room to put his private papers in order.  The green morocco desk that held them he took down from the shelf and laid upon the table.  Tied to the lid was the visiting card with his brother’s London address “in case of accident.”  On the way down to the hotel he wondered why he had done this, for though imaginative, he was not the kind of man who dealt in presentiments.  Moods with him were strong, but ever held in leash.

“It’s almost like a warning,” he thought, smiling.  He drew his thick coat tightly round the throat as the freezing air bit at him.  “Those warnings one reads of in stories sometimes ...!”

A delicious happiness was in his blood.  Over the edge of the hills across the valley rose the moon.  He saw her silver sheet the world of snow.  Snow covered all.  It smothered sound and distance.  It smothered houses, streets, and human beings.  It smothered—­life.

V

In the hall there was light and bustle; people were already arriving from the other hotels and chalets, their costumes hidden beneath many wraps.  Groups of men in evening dress stood about smoking, talking “snow” and “ski-ing.”  The band was tuning up.  The claims of the hotel-world clashed about him faintly as of old.  At the big glass windows of the verandah, peasants stopped a moment on their way home from the cafe to peer.  Hibbert thought laughingly of that conflict he used to imagine.  He laughed because it suddenly seemed so unreal.  He belonged so utterly to Nature and the mountains, and especially to those desolate slopes where now the snow lay thick and fresh and sweet, that there was no question of a conflict at all.  The power of the newly fallen snow had caught him, proving it without effort.  Out there, upon those lonely reaches of the moonlit ridges, the snow lay ready—­masses and masses of it—­cool, soft, inviting.  He longed for it.  It awaited him.  He thought of the intoxicating delight of ski-ing in the moonlight....