. Another step inside the door,
which he shut methodically behind him, and he dumped the burden at a
safe distance from the fire.

He stood up and fixed us with a solemn eye. None of us moved under
that Orphic suspense until,

"A woman," remarked George.

Miss Willie Adams was her name. Vocation, school-teacher. Present
avocation, getting lost in the snow. Age, yum-yum (the Persian for
twenty). Take to the woods if you would describe Miss Adams. A willow
for grace; a hickory for fibre; a birch for the clear whiteness of her
skin; for eyes, the blue sky seen through treetops; the silk in cocoons
for her hair; her voice, the murmur of the evening June wind in the
leaves; her mouth, the berries of the wintergreen; fingers as light as
ferns; her toe as small as a deer track. General impression upon the
dazed beholder--you could not see the forest for the trees.

Psychology, with a capital P and the foot of a lynx, at this juncture
stalks into the ranch house. Three men, a cook, a pretty young
woman--all snowbound. Count me out of it, as I did not count, anyway.
I never did, with women. Count the cook out, if you like. But note
the effect upon Ross and Etienne Girod.

Ross dumped Mark Twain in a trunk and locked the trunk. Also, he
discarded the Pittsburg scandals. Also, he shaved off a three days'
beard.

Etienne, being French, began on the beard first. He pomaded it, from a
little tube of grease Hongroise in his vest pocket. He combed it with
a little aluminum comb from the same vest pocket. He trimmed it with
manicure scissors from the same vest pocket. His light and Gallic
spirits underwent a sudden, miraculous change. He hummed a blithe San
Salvador Opera Company tune; he grinned, smirked, bowed, pirouetted,
twiddled, twaddled, twisted, and tooralooed. Gayly, the notorious
troubadour, could not have equalled Etienne.

Ross's method of advance was brusque, domineering. "Little woman," he
said, "you're welcome here!"--and with what he thought subtle double
meaning--"welcome to stay here as long as you like, snow or no snow."

Miss Adams thanked him a little wildly, some of the wintergreen berries
creeping into the birch bark. She looked around hurriedly as if
seeking escape. But there was none, save the kitchen and the room
allotted her. She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room.

Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following:

"Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of m