“He explained that--almost. He wants to be fair. He hoped that he could get back in time to save you from--from whatever is to happen to you. Then there would be no need to tell what he knows. He took that chance, do you understand? But now he won’t get back in time, and--and we’ll soon know what your great trouble is.” She sighed wearily. “Whatever it is, Charmian, you’ll never give me up, will you, dearest?” “Never!” They kissed long and tremulously, then the girl rose to her feet and pulled at his hand till he stood beside her. “Let’s go back to the Cave of Hypocritical Frogs,” she said. “It’s getting cold out here. And see, Andy--the snow is beginning to thicken on the ground. It’ll be white by morning.” That same day she was putting their simple belongings to rights in the Cave of Hypocritical Frogs. Each had a table--a flat-topped stone--on which articles of daily use were kept. Womanlike, she fussed over his things, which he consistently left awry. He was outside cutting wood. She cleaned his comb and military brushes and laid things straight, then opened the leather-covered case that contained his safety-razor to make sure that he had not overlooked an unused blade. And in the little metal container she found three, still sealed in their paper covers. She called to him: “No caveman stuff for you for a time, young fellow! Come in here! I’ve found three new razor blades!” “Good work!” he praised her when he reached her side. “Wonder how I came to overlook ’em. Guess I just took it for granted they were all gone, and didn’t open the case at all.” But by next day his beard, which had reached the most unattractive stage, still covered his face. “Andy, why don’t you shave?” she asked. “By George! Forgot all about it. Getting used to this fuzz, I guess. Maybe I like it--I don’t know.” His laugh was insincere, and she regarded him in mild surprise. They were busy at separate tasks throughout that day, Andy having gone down the river alone to make an effort to get the canoe closer to the cave, and Charmian washing clothes down by the pool below the waterfall. At supper she once more reminded him that he had not shaved. His boyish face grew red with confusion, and he stammered an apology. The pine cones that they used as torches would not give enough light for shaving after supper, and next morning he tramped away again with the beard still covering his face. She took him to task again when he returned at noon, standing before him and demanding, with a look of worriment in her eyes, the why of it. “I--I just don’t seem to want to,” he confessed. “I don’t know why. But I hate to begin. Always dreaded the thing, and out here it seems so unnecessary.” Then it was that she noticed his finger nails, for he had raised one hand to his shaggy beard and was fondling it abstractedly while it was under discussion. His finger nails were long and black with dirt. “Why, Andy!” she began; then stopped short, her face whitening.