“I don’t know how—to thank you—” she began. “Then don’t. Put your foot out toward the blaze and rub it again. You’re not so cold now, are you?” “No—no. I think it’s just n-nervousness that makes me shiver,” she sighed softly. “I never knew what a fire meant before. It’s awfully good—the w-warmth of it.” He watched her curiously. The fire was bringing a warm tint to her cheeks and scarlet was making more decisive the lines of her well-modeled lips. It did not take Gallatin long to decide that it was very agreeable to look at her. As he paused, she glanced up at him and caught the end of his gaze, which was more intense in its directness than he had meant it to be, and bent her head quickly toward the fire, her lips drawn more firmly together—a second acknowledgment of her sense of the situation, a manifestation of her convincing femininity which confirmed a previous impression. There was quick refuge in the practical. [14] [14] “I’m going to clean the fish,” he said carelessly, and turned away. “I’d like to help, if I could,” she murmured. “You’d better nurse your ankle for a while,” he said. “It’s much better now,” she put in. “I can move it without much pain.” She thrust her stockinged foot farther toward the blaze and worked the toes slowly up and down, but as she did so she flinched again. “I’m not of much use, am I?” she asked ruefully. “But while you’re doing other things, I might prepare the fish.” “Oh, no. I’ll do that. Let’s see. We need some sticks to spit them on.” “Let me make them;” she put her hand into the pocket of her dress and drew forth a knife. “You see I can help.” “Great!” he cried delightedly. “You haven’t got a teapot, a frying-pan, some cups and forks and spoons hidden anywhere have you?” She looked up at him and laughed for the first time, a fine generous laugh which established at once a new relationship between them. “No—I haven’t—but I’ve a saucepan.” “Where?” in amazement.
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