stared at that other churning cloud behind her--the crimsoned-tinted
cloud of destruction. She flung out both arms impulsively.

"Oh, you world!" she cried adoringly, unafraid yet worshipping. "I'd
like to be the wind, so I could touch you and kiss you and beat you,
and make you love me the way I love you! I'd rather be a tree and grow
up here and swing my branches in the wind and then burn, than be a
little petty, piffling human being--I would! I'm not afraid of you.
You couldn't make me afraid of you. You can storm and rage around all
you like. I only love you for it--you beautiful thing!"

It made Jack feel as though he had blundered upon a person kneeling in
prayer; she was, after all, the goddess she looked, he thought
whimsically. At least she had all the makings of a goddess of the
mountain top. He felt suddenly inferior and gross, and he turned to
leave her alone with her beautiful, terrible world. But manlike he did
a frightfully human and earthly thing; he knocked his foot against an
empty coal-oil can, and stood betrayed in his purpose of flight.

She turned her head and looked at him like one just waking from a
too-vivid dream. She frowned, and then she smiled with a little
ironical twist to her soft curving lips.

"You heard what I said about piffling human beings?" she asked him
sweetly. "That is your catalogue number. Why for goodness' sake! With
your hair done in that marcelle pompadour, and that grin, you look
exactly like Jack Corey, that Los Angeles boy that all the girls were
simply crazy about, till he turned out to be such a perfectly terrible
villain!"