quick phrase that was Claire.

Did he love her then? He asked himself that, and could not answer. What
was love to him, anyway? He sought to think out a scheme of love that
would fit into his system of utter selfishness, and failed. The memory
of her in his arms came to him now with a warm, emotional coloring that
had been absent during the days of their journey.

Had he been so impersonal then at first? He remembered his first wild
joy at finding her there in the surf, and he admitted that even then
there had been a subtle heightening of his pleasure, because it was a
woman. Since his blindness he had been separated from the other sex even
more than from his own, and now he was to live with one daily, having
her alone to talk to, to watch, to be interested in, and to know--yes,
that had been a part of his feeling that morning. He remembered that he
had been slightly irritated at her when he had first decided that she
was cold and intellectual. He had wanted her to be warm, colorful,
vivid, and feminine. He had found later that she was all these things,
but not toward him. It was a man whom he had never known, her husband,
Howard Barkley, for whom she was wholly woman. Always when she spoke of
him her voice had warmed, grown softer, subtly shaded with color.

Claire opened the cabin door.

"Hello, Mr. Dreamer! Still in the land of to-morrow?" she called, taking
off her heavy wraps.

"Where's Philip?" Lawrence demanded gruffly, without moving.

"Working over a trap in the ravine. I was a little tired, so I didn't
wait."

Lawrence could hear her brushing her hair. He was glad she had returned
without Philip. Now at least they would have a few minutes alone.

"Snow bad?" he asked. If he could only have run his hands through that
curly mass! The memory of her hair brushing against his face made his
temples throb dully.

"Yes, my hair is filled with it. I caught my cap on a branch, and the
whole load of snow came down on top of me."

"How old are you, Claire?" he demanded suddenly.

She laughed. "Guess! Don't you know it isn't good form to ask a lady her
age?"

"Sometimes you are quite thirty, and other times--"

"Well, go on." Claire was standing at the opposite side of the fireplace
with her back to the flame.

"Other times, you are two," Lawrence continued calmly.

"I thought that was coming. Well, just to prove what a really nice
person I am, I'll tell you. I'm twenty-six."

"When were you married, Cl