But
it seemed to her that their tasks had been light compared with the job
of cooking in Charlie Benton's camp.
Curiously enough, while she changed her clothes, her thoughts a jumble
of present things she disliked and the unknown that she would have to
face alone in Vancouver, she found her mind turning on Jack Fyfe. During
his three weeks' stay, they had progressed less in the direction of
acquaintances than she and Paul Abbey had done in two meetings. Fyfe
talked to her now and then briefly, but he looked at her more than he
talked. Where his searching gaze disturbed, his speech soothed, it was
so coolly impersonal. That, she deemed, was merely another of his odd
contradictions. He was contradictory. Stella classified Jack Fyfe as a
creature of unrestrained passions. She recognized, or thought she
recognized, certain dominant, primitive characteristics, and they did
not excite her admiration. Men admired him--those who were not afraid of
him. If he had been of more polished clay, she could readily have
grasped this attitude. But in her eyes he was merely a rude, masterful
man, uncommonly gifted with physical strength, dominating other rude,
strong men by sheer brute force. And she herself rather despised sheer
brute force. The iron hand should fitly be concealed beneath the velvet
glove.
Yet in spite of the bold look in his eyes that always confused and
irritated her, Fyfe had never singled her out for the slightest
attention of the kind any man bestows upon an attractive woman.
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