"A man's life here can't be called exactly monotonous," he said after a pause, "for there is always incident enough if one cares for the quality of it, but there isn't much to make history of. I have lived at Cap'n Ben's for about twenty years, have fished every day when it was fit, have eaten, drunk, slept, read when I had a chance, and that is about all there is."
Gwen was silent, then she shot him a glance. "And before Cap'n Ben's?" she said.
A hot flush mounted to the man's face. "Before that there is nothing worth relating," he said. And Gwen felt herself properly rebuked for her curiosity. Why should she pry into a stranger's secrets? Yet she felt a sense of disappointment.
They presently came to the cottage perched upon the crags, yet clinging close to the rocks, showing long sloping lines, and simplicity of design. "When its newness wears off," said Gwen, "it will look just as we want it to. Come in, Mr. Williams, and I will get the shades. I can help you, if you want me to, but I am afraid I should never be able to put them up alone. I can't manage a saw, and some of the rollers are too long."
Her companion nodded. He was chary of speech, Gwen knew, but he took hold of the work as one having a personal interest in it, and before very long all the windows were furnished with shades.
Gwen surveyed them with a pleased look. "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Williams," she said. "I am afraid I was very audacious to descend upon you as I did, but I was desperate. Shall I?" She fumbled at the little side bag she wore. "I believe the charge—some of them charge—"
Mr. Williams put up his hand peremptorily. "Stop!" he said. "I have done this only—"
"To accommodate me," exclaimed Gwen despairingly, then with a sudden smile, "Please don't say that. I am so tired of hearing it. Any other word, please."
"I have done this because it was a pleasure," he said gravely smiling. "And I will call it even if you will promise me one thing."
"And that is—"