“Why?” I said. “What for?”      

       “I hate the brute,” he said. “I let fly at him the night I got back——”      

       I laughed. He stood and mused.     

       “Poor little Elise,” he murmured.     

       “Was she small—petite?” I asked. He jerked up his head.     

       “No,” he said. “Rather tall.”      

       “Taller than your wife, I suppose.”      

       Again he looked into my eyes. And then once more he went into a loud burst of laughter that made the still, snow-deserted valley clap again.     

       “God, it's a knockout!” he said, thoroughly amused. Then he stood at ease, one foot out, his hands in his breeches pocket, in front of him, his head thrown back, a handsome figure of a man.     

       “But I'll do that blasted Joey in——” he mused, I ran down the hill, shouting also with laughter.     

   

 Prev. P 17/17