Mrs. Howe beamed on her. "If
I'd 'a' known you were livin' so close, we'd have been acquainted a week
ago; though I ain't got rightly settled here myself. My land, these men
are such clams. I never knowed till this mornin' there was any white
woman at this end of the lake besides myself."

She showed Stella into a bedroom. It boasted an enamel washstand with
taps which yielded hot and cold water, neatly curtained windows, and a
deep-seated Morris chair. Certainly Fyfe's household accommodation was
far superior to Charlie Benton's. Stella expected the man's home to be
rough and ready like himself, and in a measure it was, but a comfortable
sort of rough and readiness. She took off her hat and had a critical
survey of herself in a mirror, after which she had just time to brush
her hair before answering Mrs. Howe's call to a "cup of tea."

The cup of tea resolved itself into a well-cooked and well-served meal,
with china and linen and other unexpected table accessories which
agreeably surprised, her. Inevitably she made comparisons, somewhat
tinctured with natural envy. If Charlie would fix his place with a few
such household luxuries, life in their camp would be more nearly
bearable, despite the long hours of disagreeable work. As it was--well,
the unrelieved discomforts were beginning to warp her out-look on
everything.

Fyfe maintained his habitual sparsity of words while they ate the food
Mrs. Howe brought on a tray hot from the cook's outlying domain. When
they finished, he rose, took up his hat and helped himself to a handful
of cigars from a box on the fireplace mantel.

"I guess you'll be able to put in the time, all right," he remarked.
"Make yourself at home. If you take a notion to read, there's a lot of
books and magazines in my room. Mrs. Howe'll show you."

He walked out. Stella was conscious of a distinct relief when he was
gone. She had somehow experienced a recurrence of that peculiar feeling
of needing to be on her guard, as if there were some curious, latent
antagonism between them. She puzzled over that a little. She had never
felt that way about Paul Abbey, for instance, or indeed toward any man
she had ever known. Fyfe's more or less ambiguous remark in the boat had
helped to arouse it again. His manner of saying that he had "thought a
lot about her" conveyed more than the mere words. She could quite
conceive of the Jack Fyfe type carrying things with a high hand where a
woman was concerned. He h