I was dreadfully afraid he was going to laugh at me, it sounded so much like pulpiteering. But I was in earnest, passionately in earnest, and my lord and master seemed to realize it.
“Have you thought about the kiddies?” he asked me, for the second time.
“I’m always thinking about the kiddies,” I told him, a trifle puzzled by the wince which so simple a statement could bring to his face. His wondering eye, staring through the open French doors of the living-room, rested on my baby grand.
“How about that?” he demanded, with a grim head-nod toward the piano.
“That may help to amuse Lady Alicia,” I just as grimly retorted.
He stared about that comfortable home which we had builded up out of our toil, stared about at it as I’ve seen emigrants stare back at the receding shores of the land they loved. Then he sat studying my face.
“How long is it since you’ve seen the inside of the Harris shack?” he suddenly asked me.
“Last Friday when I took the bacon and oatmeal over to Soapy and Francois and Whinstane Sandy,” I told him.
“And what did you think of that shack?”
“It impressed me as being sadly in need of soap and water,” I calmly admitted. “It’s like any other shack where two or three men have been batching—no better and no worse than the wickiup I came to here on my honeymoon.”