Colorful turns of life, the
more or less engrossing contact of various personalities, some new thing
to be done, seen, admired, discussed, had been a part of her existence
ever since she could remember. None of this touched her now. A dead
weight of monotony rode her hard. There was the furtive wild life of the
forest, the light of sun and sky, and the banked green of the forest
that masked the steep granite slopes. She appreciated beauty, craved it
indeed, but she could not satisfy her being with scenic effects alone.
She craved, without being wholly aware of it, or altogether admitting it
to herself, some human distraction in all that majestic solitude.
It was forthcoming. When she returned to camp at two o'clock, driven in
by hunger, Jack Fyfe sat on the doorstep.
"How-de-do. I've come to bring you over to my place," he announced quite
casually.
"Thanks. I've already declined one pressing invitation to that effect,"
Stella returned drily. His matter-of-fact assurance rather nettled her.
"A woman always has the privilege of changing her mind," Fyfe smiled.
"Charlie is going to be at my camp for at least three weeks. It'll rain
soon, and the days'll be pretty gray and dreary and lonesome. You might
as well pack your war-bag and come along."
She stood uncertainly. Her tongue held ready a blunt refusal, but she
did not utter it; and she did not know why. She did have a glimpse of
the futility of refusing, only she did not admit that refusal might be
of no weight in the matter.
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