"And will you please say I shall be ready in twenty minutes?"
Standing on the hotel veranda together, after luncheon, "Mrs. Mill and Mr.
Hayward"--he restored to calmness--could look thousands of feet down to
the floor of the valley. Exactly how many thousands of feet there were
Angela refused to be told, for the distance seemed illimitable, and cold
facts might dwarf imagination. They saw the Yosemite Falls, a quivering
white vein on a dark wall a million miles away. Mirror Lake was a splinter
of glass on a pavement of green tiles. Nevada and Vernal Falls were pale
yet bright as streaks of stardrift, in the blue haze of distance.
If it had not been for the episode of Mrs. Hilliard and Mr. May, Nick
might have felt tempted to try his fate, and dare the dash across the
"dead line," that evening of moonlight on the mountain-top. But it might,
he thought, seem like presuming on what had happened; and having come,
more or less safely, round an awkward turning, he was thankful to find
himself on a narrow ledge of security. The moonshine, that turned
mountains to marble and sky to pearl, was cold as it was pure; and in its
bleaching radiance Angela seemed less woman than spirit. He dared not let
that angel know how hot was his heart.
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