all at once. But the truth of it swept over him more and more swiftly as he
made his way along the dark, narrow trail that led up to the Miette Plain.
It was something that not only amazed and thrilled him. First--as in all
things--he saw the humour of it. He, John Aldous of all men, had utterly
obliterated himself, and for a _woman_. He had even gone so far as to offer
the sacrifice of his most important work. Frankly he had told Joanne that
she interested him more just now than his book. Again he repeated to
himself that it had not been a surrender--but an obliteration. With a pair
of lovely eyes looking quietly into him, he had wiped the slate clean of
the things he had preached for ten years and the laws he had made for
himself. And as he came in sight of the big Otto tent, he found himself
smiling, his breath coming quickly, strange voices singing within him.

He stopped to load and light his pipe before he faced Mrs. Otto, and he
clouded himself in as much smoke as possible while he explained to her
that he had almost forced Joanne to stop at his cabin and eat partridges
with him. He learned that the Tête Jaune train could not go on until the
next day, and after Mrs. Otto had made him take a loaf of fresh bread and a
can of home-made marmalade as a contribution to their feast, he turned back
toward the cabin, trying to whistle in his old careless way.

The questions he had first asked himself about Joanne forced themselves
back upon him now with deeper import. Almost unconsciously he had revealed
himself to her. He had spread open for her eyes and understanding the page
which he had so long hidden. He had as much as confessed to her that she
had come to change him--to complete what he had only half created. It had
been an almost inconceivable and daring confession, and he believed that
she understood him. More than that, she had read about him. She had read
his books. She knew John Aldous--the man.