rver, and to Miss
Marley the sight of them was like the sight of those unknowingly
condemned to die. St. Moritz in general was not observant. It had
gossips, but it did not know the difference between true and false,
temporary and permanent. It had one mold for all its fancies: given a
man and a woman, it formed at once its general and monotonous
conjecture.

Maurice might have noticed Claire's preoccupation, for Maurice was
sensitive to that which touched himself, but for the moment a group more
expensive and less second rate than he had discovered at Davos took up
his entire attention. He had none to spare for his sister unless she
bothered him, and she didn't bother him.

It was left to Miss Marley to watch from hour to hour the significant
and rising chart of passion. The evening after the Davos match, Winn had
knocked at the door of her private sitting-room. It was his intention
only to ask her if she would dine with some friends of his from Davos;
he would mention indifferently that they were very young, a mere boy and
girl, and he would suggest with equal subtlety that he would be obliged
if Miss Marley would continue to take meals at his table during their
visit. St. Moritz, he saw himself saying, was such a place for talk.
There was no occasion to go into anything, and Miss Marley would, of
course, have no idea how matters really stood. She was a good sort, but
he wasn't going to talk about Claire.

Miss Marley said, "Come in," in that wonderful, low, soft voice of hers
that came so strangely from her blistered lips. She was sitting in a low
chair, smoking, in front of an open wood fire.

Her room was furnished by herself. It was a comfortable, featureless
room, with no ornaments and no flowers; there were plenty of books in
cases or lying about at ease on a big table, a stout desk by the window,
and several leather-covered, deep armchairs. The walls were bare except
for photographs of the Cresta. These had been taken from every possible
angle of the run--its banks, its corners, its flashing pieces of
straight, and its incredible final hill. It was noticeable that though
there was generally a figure on a toboggan in the photograph, it never
happened to be one of Miss Marley herself. She was a creditable rider,
but she did not, to her own mind, show off the Cresta.

Her eyes met Winn's with a shrewdness that she promptly veiled. He
wasn't looking as if he wanted her to be shrewd. It struck her that she
was