The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. . ’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely. 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. “Didn’t you know he was married?” asked Miss Klegg, and was struck by a thought that made her glance quickly at her companion.
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