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That's she." He pointed to a leather-framed photograph propped against the mirror. Laughing Bill leaned forward and studied the picture approvingly. "Some queen, all right. Blonde, I reckon." "Sure. You like blondes?" "Who, me? I ain't strong for no kind of women. You hate her, don't you?" The young man smiled more widely, his whole face lit up.
Bill lay silent for an hour, staring through the open cabin window at a gray curtain of falling snowflakes; then he shook his head and muttered: "Well, I be danged!" "Anything you want?" Thomas inquired, quickly. "I was just thinking about that gal." Bill indicated the leather-framed photograph which was prominently featured above the other bunk. "You ain't gettin' ahead very fast, are you?"
He noted the log fire in the broad fireplace, comfortable chairs, the imported rugs on the gleaming floor, the shelves of books which climbed to the ceiling, a quaint writing-desk in one corner which seemed to belong to another country and another century, but which was perfectly at home in this room. On the desk he saw standing a leather-framed photograph which seemed familiar.
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