That type he knew and could meet fairly on a level.

But when she was looking and saying nothing, she seemed altogether different.

Which, he wondered, was the real Marion Rose?
While he stood gazing, she turned and looked down at him; a little blankly at first, as though she had just waked from sleep or from abstraction too deep for instant recovery.

Then she smiled and changed her position, putting up both hands to pat and pull her hair into neatness; and with the movement she ceased to be a brooding goddess of the mountain tops, and became again the girl who had perversely taken the telephone away from him, the girl who had played mock billiards upon his beloved chart, the girl who said--she said it now, while he was thinking of her melodious way of saying it.
"Well, what do you know about that ?" she inquired, making a gesture with one arm toward the fire while with the other she fumbled in her absurd little vanity bag.

"It just burns as if it had a grudge against the country, doesn't it?
But isn't it perfectly gorgeous, with all that sunset and everything! It looks like a Bliffen ten-reel picture.
He ought to see it--he could get some great pointers for his next big picture.