Unseen by the others, Derek picked up a discarded doll from the floor and dropped it into the pocket of his overcoat. The doll had only one leg.
It was refreshing to get out into the sharp bright air, to hear the crunch of the crisp snow beneath their feet, to watch the silvery moon sailing above and its bright train shimmering on the lake. It was a world of silver light and meticulous black shadows.
They walked four abreast.
"Happy, happy people!" exclaimed Miss Pearsall. "Going about doing good!"
"Nonsense. We get as much fun out of it as the kids," said Mr. Jerrold.
"Oh, Mr. Vale!" cried Miss Pearsall. "Do you know the Gitanjali?"
"No," replied Vale. "Where do they live?"
"They are not people but poems. By Tagore. I am singing them now. They are wonderful."
"You sing them beautifully," said Grace.
"There is no one like Tagore. No one like the Hindoo writers. I am in closer touch with the Infinite since I have steeped myself in the East than ever before. 'I am a slave of this spirit of the quest.'"
Mr. Jerrold was saying, "By Jove, I've gone and lost my pipe."
Vale was thinking, "My God! This woman and Hobbs—hard-bitten Hobbs."
Miss Pearsall went on: "I have no faith in doctors. Absolutely none. No doctor could ever cure one of my headaches. Only God can cure my headaches." Her eyes glistened in the moonlight.
Mr. Jerrold was saying: "They sent me some pretty poor stuff from the wholesale. One of those dolls, for instance, I had to throw away. The plaster was all broken
