“Ruth,” he said, “I am steeped in the odours of the dry-house. Can't you wait until I bathe and dress?”
“No, I can't,” said a fretful voice. “I can't endure this bed another minute.”
“Then let Doctor Harmon lift you. He is so fresh and clean.”
The Harvester glanced enviously at the shaven face and white trousers and shirt of the doctor.
“I just hate fresh, clean men. I want to smell herbs. I want to put my feet in the dirt and my hands in the water.”
The Harvester came at a rush. He brought a big easy chair from the living-room, straightened the cover, and bent above the Girl. He picked her up lightly, gently, and easing her to his body settled in the chair. She laid her face on his shoulder, and heaved a deep sigh of content.
“Be careful with my back, Man,” she said. “I think my spine is almost worn through.”
“Poor girl,” said the Harvester. “That bed should be softer.”
“It should not!” contradicted the Girl. “It should be much harder. I'm tired of soft beds. I want to lie on the earth, with my head on a root; and I wish it would rain dirt on me. I am bathed threadbare. I want to be all streaky.”
“I understand,” said the Harvester. “Harmon, bring me a pad and pencil a minute, I must write an order for some things I want. Will you call up town and have them sent out immediately?”