Sylvia Thesiger could hardly eat for wonder.

Her face was always to the window, her lips were always parted in a smile, her gray eyes bright with happiness.
"I have never known anything like this," she said.

"It is all so strange, so very beautiful." Her freshness and simplicity laid their charm on him, even as they had done on Michel Revailloud the night before.

She was as eager as a child to get the meal done with and to go out again into the open air, before the after-glow had faded from the peaks.

There was something almost pathetic in her desire to make the very most of such rare moments.