Abbey maintained for his own pleasure a fast motorboat. He slid now into
the bay unheard, tied up beside the float, walked to the kitchen,
glanced in, then around the corner, and smilingly took a seat on the
grass near her.
"It's too perfect a day to loaf in the shade," he observed, after a
brief exchange of commonplaces. "Won't you come out for a little spin on
the lake? A ride in the _Wolf_ will put some color in your cheeks."
"If I had time," she said, "I would. But loggers must eat though the
heavens fall. In about twenty minutes I'll have to start supper. I'll
have color enough, goodness knows once I get over that stove."
Abbey picked nervously at a blade of grass for a minute.
"This is a regular dog's life for you," he broke out suddenly.
"Oh, hardly that," she protested. "It's a little hard on me because I
haven't been used to it, that's all."
"It's Chinaman's work," he said hotly. "Charlie oughtn't to let you stew
in that kitchen."
Stella said nothing; she was not moved to the defence of her brother.
She was loyal enough to her blood, but not so intensely loyal that she
could defend him against criticism that struck a responsive chord in her
own mind. She was beginning to see that, being useful, Charlie was
making use of her. His horizon had narrowed to logs that might be
transmuted into money. Enslaved himself by his engrossing purposes, he
thought nothing of enslaving others to serve his end. She had come to a
definite conclusion about that, and she meant to collect her wages when
he sold his logs, collect also the ninety dollars of her money he had
coolly appropriated, and try a different outlet.
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