"If
I'd 'a' known you were livin' so close, we'd have been acquainted a week
ago; though I ain't got rightly settled here myself. My land, these men
are such clams. I never knowed till this mornin' there was any white
woman at this end of the lake besides myself."
She showed Stella into a bedroom. It boasted an enamel washstand with
taps which yielded hot and cold water, neatly curtained windows, and a
deep-seated Morris chair. Certainly Fyfe's household accommodation was
far superior to Charlie Benton's. Stella expected the man's home to be
rough and ready like himself, and in a measure it was, but a comfortable
sort of rough and readiness. She took off her hat and had a critical
survey of herself in a mirror, after which she had just time to brush
her hair before answering Mrs. Howe's call to a "cup of tea."
The cup of tea resolved itself into a well-cooked and well-served meal,
with china and linen and other unexpected table accessories which
agreeably surprised, her. Inevitably she made comparisons, somewhat
tinctured with natural envy. If Charlie would fix his place with a few
such household luxuries, life in their camp would be more nearly
bearable, despite the long hours of disagreeable work. As it was--well,
the unrelieved discomforts were beginning to warp her out-look on
everything.
Fyfe maintained his habitual sparsity of words while they ate the food
Mrs. Howe brought on a tray hot from the cook's outlying domain. When
they finished, he rose, took up his hat and helped himself to a handful
of cigars from a box on the fireplace mantel.
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