The moon was rising behind a rugged line of snow-hills across the valley, touching them here and there with a silvery radiance, casting mysterious shadows all about them, sending a magic twilight over the whole world so that they saw it dimly, as through a luminous veil.

The scent of Dacre's cigar hung in the air, fragrant, aromatic, Eastern.

He was sleepily watching his wife's pure profile as she gazed into her world of dreams.

It was evident that she took small interest in Monck and his probable career.

It was not surprising.