These were majestic, overpowering, but plainly of
this earth, unlike the pure, white summits that seemed unreal, impossible
in their beauty.
"Do come and look, Fred," said the girl aloud. "I've never seen the Snows
so clearly."
She spoke to the solitary occupant of the dining-room of the bungalow. The
young man at the breakfast table answered laughingly:
"I don't want to look at those confounded hills, Sis. I've seen them,
nothing but them, all through these long months, until I begin to hate the
sight of them."
"Oh, but do come, dear!" she pleaded. "Kinchinjunga has never seemed so
beautiful as it does this morning. And it looks so near. Who could believe
that it was all those miles away?"
With an air of pretended boredom and martyr-like resignation, her brother
put down his coffee-cup and came out on the verandah.
"Isn't it like Fairyland?" said the girl in an awed voice.
He put his arm affectionately round her, as he replied:
"Then it's where you belong, kiddie, for you look like a fairy this
morning."
The hackneyed compliment, unusual from the lips of a brother, was not
far-fetched. If a dainty little figure, an exquisitely pretty dimpled
face, a shell-pink complexion, violet eyes with long, thick lashes, and
naturally wavy golden hair be the hallmarks of the fairies, then Noreen
Daleham might claim to be one.
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