“Bully,” cried Rickard, not stopping.
“Haven’t you something for me to do? Can’t I help?”
“We can use everybody,” Rickard called back over his shoulder.
Uncomfortable to find that that voice still had power to make her tremble. Even when she loved Godfrey. For she did love him. She intended to love him. Else what did life mean? Those broken beginnings, those false starts? It was hate, she told herself, hate that shook her, when Rickard came near. With all her soul she hated him.
Godfrey was itching to be off, but he would not offend Mrs. Hardin. After a deliberate interval, she got up, shaking out her ruffles. “One gets stiff sitting so long. Don’t let me keep you.”
He saw he had hurt her. “I want to stay with you, you know that, dearest. But it doesn’t feel right to see them all working like niggers and me loafing here. You don’t mind?”
Oh, no, Gerty did not mind! She was tired, anyway! She was going back to her tent!
“Won’t you wait for the closure?”
Her laugh was airy and detached. “Oh, they are always closing that river. They will always be closing it. It’s no novelty. You can tell me all about it.”
He thrust a yellow paper into her hands. “I sent that off to-day. Perhaps you will be glad?”