He put down his cup; no, he would not have any more. “Thank you just the same. It is really delicious. I feel like a truant, sipping tea here. I’m forgetting my errand.” He stood. She had never seen him hampered by embarrassment before. Her smile was gently encouraging, womanly sweet. She really admired him, more than any one she had ever known. His reserve called to her always, to reach his ideals, ideals she could only guess at. Her mind grasped at the concrete; she believed him impatient of external coarseness. She was always conscious of her dress, her surroundings, her table when he was present.
“My mission is a little awkward, Mrs. Hardin. I hope you will take it all right, that you will not be offended.”
“Offended?” Her face showed alarm.
“It’s about Ling. He’s a queer fellow, they all are, you know.” He was blundering like a schoolboy under the growing shadow in Gerty’s blue eyes. “They resent authority, that is, from women. He is a tyrant, Ling is.”
“I think you are right, Mr. Rickard. He is an unruly servant. But you could replace him easily.”
“Oh, but we couldn’t. It’s no easy matter to get a cook while it’s hot like this; and a camp cook, who can cook quantities, and yet make them palatable—”
Then what was it he was trying to say? The blue eyes met his at last squarely, a glint of warning in them he would not see.
“I have to give in to him, we all do; have to humor him. We’ve spoiled him, I guess.”
“Yes?” Ah, she would not help him. Let him flounder!
“He wants to be let alone; he doesn’t appreciate your kind help, Mrs. Hardin.”