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And then the paper dropped and everybody was laughing, and Teddy was screaming wildly and he was staring at the khaki-clad upper half of a tall young soldier whose silver-blond hair was clipped close, and whose hand went up in salute. "It's Cousin Derry. It's Cousin Derry," Teddy was shouting, and Margaret-Mary piped up, "It's Tousin Dee."

She was not conscious of observation to-day, however, and skirted the cliffs rapidly, drawing her gray mantle about her as the wind howled by, but did not lift the hood; the massive coils of silver-blond hair kept her head warm. As the Princess Hélène, despite her own faultless blondinity, had pronounced, Natalie Ivanhoff was a beautiful woman.

From Ralph's point of view Derry Drake was not handsome, and he was utterly unaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent languidness were banked fires which could more than match his own. And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry's millions meant nothing to Jean.

Her long silver-blond hair is unbound and luminously distinct from the white fog. She walks swiftly across the lower table of the mountain, then disappears. One sees, vaguely, a dark figure crouching along the lower fringe of the fog. That, too, disappears. For a moment the silence seems intensified. Then, suddenly, it is crossed by a low whir a strange sound in the midnight.

Drusilla, sitting on the doorstep of the stone house, saw a tall figure striding down the street. He stopped to speak to an old woman and doffed his hat, showing a clipped silver-blond head. Drusilla went flying through the dusk. "Derry, Derry!" He stared and stared again. "Is it you?" he asked. Nothing was vivid now about Drusilla except her hair. "Yes." He took her hands in his. "My dear girl."