She spread the straight sleeves apart, smoothing out the dangling
fringe, and her hand lingered with a strange gentleness a-down the
glowing plastron of bright beads.
This was the first gift a man had ever given her, other than De
Courtenay's red flower, and somehow it pleased her vastly.
She fell to thinking of the factor, of his open face, his light head
forever tilted back with the square chin lifted, of the mouth above and
of the eyes, clear as the new day and anxious as a child's the while
she halted above his offering, and unconsciously she began within her
mind to compare him with all other men she had ever known.
There was Prix Laroux. Not like. Also Jean Folliere and Anthon Brisbee
of Grand Portage, who came to the wilderness each year. Neither were
they like this man, nor Cif and Pierre Bordoux, nor Franz LeClede, nor
yet her brother Henri. These she knew and they were of a different
pattern.
Also there was that venturer of the great beauty and the silken curls
who had spoken so prettily. With all his grace, he was unlike this
strong young man whose tongue faltered and whose eyes were anxious.
Verily, for the first time; this maid of the wilderness was thinking of
men.
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