I just stumbled here by accident. And I haven't seen a white
woman--for two years. So I stared--stared--and stood there like a
fool."

Relief shot into her eyes at his words.

"Two years? What do you mean?"

"I've been up along the rim of h--I mean the Arctic, on a
government wild-goose chase," he explained. "And I'm just coming
down."

"You're from the North?"

There was an eager emphasis in her question.

"Yes. Straight from Coronation Gulf. I ran ashore to cook a mess
of prunes. While the water was boiling I came down here after a
bear, and found YOU! My name is Philip Weyman; I haven't even an
Indian with me, and there are three things in the world I'd trade
that name for just now: One is pie, another is doughnuts, and the
third--"

She brushed back her hair, and the fear went from her eyes as she
looked at him.

"And the third?" she asked.

"Is the answer to a question," he finished. "How do YOU happen to
be here, six hundred miles from anywhere?"