He
had thought that Jeanne's hair was very dark, but he saw now that
it was filled with the rare life of a Titian head, running from
red to gold and dark brown, with changing shadows and flashes of
light. It was beautiful. And Jeanne, as he looked at her, he
thought to be the most beautiful thing on earth. The movement of
her arms, the graceful, sinuous twists of her slender body as she
put her strength upon the paddle, the poise of her head, the
piquant tilt to her chin whenever she turned so that he caught a
half profile of her flushed, eager face all filled his cup of
admiration to overflowing. And he found himself wondering,
suddenly, how this girl could be a sister to Pierre Couchee. He
saw in her no sign of French or half-breed blood. Her hair was
fine and soft, and waved about her ears and where it fell loose
upon the back. The color in her cheeks was as delicate as the
tints of the bakneesh flower. She had rolled up her broad cuffs to
give her greater freedom in paddling, and her arms shone white and
firm, glistening with the wet drip of the paddle. He was marveling
at her relationship to Pierre when she looked back at him, her
face aglow with exercise and the spice of the morning, and he saw
the sunlight as blue as the sky above him in her eyes.
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