But Sibyl's afraid of the cold.

I can't convince her that it's nothing to what we endure here in the beastliness of a London winter.

She hates the thought of ice and snow and mountains.

A great pity; it would do her no end of good.

I suppose we must go to the Riviera.' He shrugged his shoulders, and for a moment there was silence.
'By-the-bye,' he resumed, 'I have a letter from Miles, and you'd like to see it.' From a pile of letters on the table he selected one written on two sheets of thin paper, and handed it to Rolfe.