"No, never!" And again she extended the hand, but he frowned upon it and
drew back into the farther corner of his chair. She laughed. "And is
Fatsy really jealous?"
"No, not jealous; but hurt, disgusted, outraged, and upset."
"Because I insist upon treating our hostess with respect and recognizing
her rights?"
"Our hostess! More likely some female devil who beguiled the old man.
Probably he was so ashamed of her he never dared go home again."
"Oh, Pats! I blush for you."
"It's a silly face."
"It is a face full of character."
"Oh, come now, Elinor! It would pass for a portrait of the full moon."
"Well, the full moon has character. And I love those big merry eyes with
the funny little melancholy kind of droop at the outer corners. Poor
thing! She must have had a sad life out here in the wilderness."
"Thank you."
As their eyes met he frowned again, and she, for the third time,
extended the hand. "A sad life, because she had no Pats."
But he refused the hand. "That is very clever, but too late. The stab
had already reached home."
She smiled and began to fold her napkin.
"To return to business, Miss Marshall, of Boston, the provisions are so
low that we really must decide on something."
"How long will they last?"
"Perhaps a month or six weeks. Could you pull through the winter on eggs
and dried apples--and candles?"
"If necessary."
He laughed. "I believe you could! You are an angel, a Spartan, and a
sport. Your nature is simply an extravagant profusion of the highest
human attributes. And the worst of it is, you look it. You are too
beautiful--in a superior, overtopping way. You scare me."