"Well, you certainly know the color of his eyes."

"He has hazel eyes--I think you'd call them--"

"Yes?" she drank in his words eagerly, pressing his hand tighter in
her excitement. "Go on. If only you were a girl, now, you'd do this
so much better."

"I--I--but I don't know what else to say, Sylvie. He is very strong."

"Of course. I know that. Didn't he pick me up out of the snow and
carry me home?" He moved as though he had a feather on his arm. You
are very strong too, Pete--_very_ strong. Are _your_ eyes hazel?"

"No; blue."

"I always liked blue eyes. I like to imagine that Hugh is just the
Viking sort of man I dreamed about when I was a little girl. You think
I'm a silly goose, don't you?"

"Yes, rather."

"Don't keep trying to pull your hand away, dear; you can't guess how
it comforts me. I'm awfully alone here, and strange. I don't suppose
you know how queer and frightening it's been--this getting lost and
being brought here in the dark, and then--living on in the dark, just
trusting my instincts, my intuitions, instead of my eyes. Voices tell
a lot about people, don't they?--more than I ever dreamed they could.
Pete, there is nothing in that--that splendid, generous thing Hugh