The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. Rhea commanded her. He seemed to be thinking hard. She was mentally transported for an instant to the old castle in Herculis. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party.
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