When she left the room he went into the laboratory and took his watch off the skeleton’s fingers.  His face wore a troubled expression, but after a moment’s thought it cleared again.  His memory was a complete blank.

“I suppose I left it on the writing-table when I went out to take the air,” he said.  And there was no one present to contradict him.

He crossed to the window and blew carelessly some ashes of burned paper from the sill, and stood watching them as they floated away lazily over the tops of the trees.

* * * * *

The Glamour of the Snow

I

Hibbert, always conscious of two worlds, was in this mountain village conscious of three.  It lay on the slopes of the Valais Alps, and he had taken a room in the little post office, where he could be at peace to write his book, yet at the same time enjoy the winter sports and find companionship in the hotels when he wanted it.

The three worlds that met and mingled here seemed to his imaginative temperament very obvious, though it is doubtful if another mind less intuitively equipped would have seen them so well-defined.  There was the world of tourist English, civilised, quasi-educated, to which he belonged by birth, at any rate; there was the world of peasants to which he felt himself drawn by sympathy—­for he loved and admired their toiling, simple life; and there was this other—­which he could only call the world of Nature.  To this last, however, in virtue of a vehement poetic imagination, and a tumultuous pagan instinct fed by his very blood, he felt that most of him belonged.  The others borrowed from it, as it were, for visits.  Here, with the soul of Nature, hid his central life.

Between all three was conflict—­potential conflict.  On the skating-rink each Sunday the tourists regarded the natives as intruders; in the church the peasants plainly questioned:  “Why do you come?  We are here to worship; you to stare and whisper!” For neither of these two worlds accepted the other.  And neither did Nature accept the tourists, for it took advantage of their least mistakes, and indeed, even of the peasant-world “accepted” only those who were strong and bold enough to invade her savage domain with sufficient skill to protect themselves from several forms of—­death.

Now Hibbert was keenly aware of this potential conflict and want of harmony; he felt outside, yet caught by it—­torn in the three directions because he was partly of each world, but wholly in only one.  There grew in him a constant, subtle effort—­or, at least, desire—­to unify them and decide positively to which he should belong and live in.  The attempt, of course, was largely subconscious.  It was the natural instinct of a richly imaginative nature seeking the point of equilibrium, so that the mind could feel at peace and his brain be free to do good work.