"Well, we can
stand that."
From the bank they went to the hotel, registered, and were shown to a
room. For the first time since the summit of the Klappan Range, where
her tiny hand glass had suffered disaster, Hazel was permitted a clear
view of herself in a mirror.
"I'm a perfect fright!" she mourned.
"Huh!" Bill grunted. "You're all right. Look at me."
The trail had dealt hardly with both, in the matter of their personal
appearance. Tanned to an abiding brown, they were, and Hazel's
one-time smooth face was spotted with fly bites and marked with certain
scratches suffered in the brush as they skirted the Kispiox. Her hair
had lost its sleek, glossy smoothness of arrangement. Her hands were
reddened and rough. But chiefly she was concerned with the sad state
of her apparel. She had come a matter of four hundred miles in the
clothes on her back--and they bore unequivocal evidence of the journey.
"I'm a perfect fright," she repeated pettishly. "I don't wonder that
people lapse into semi-barbarism in the backwoods. One's manners,
morals, clothing, and complexion all suffer from too close contact with
your beloved North, Bill."
"Thanks!" he returned shortly.
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