Weston gazed at her a moment in astonishment, and then a twinkle crept into his eyes. Her matter-of-fact brusqueness, which made it perfectly plain that his views in the matter did not count, might have roused a sense of opposition in some men, but he had acquired a wide toleration in western Canada.
“Shall I stand here, miss?” he asked.
“No,” said the girl, “a little farther to the right, where the sunlight falls upon the trunks behind you; but you mustn’t look wooden. That will do. Still, you’ll have to take off that jacket. It’s frippery.”
The suspicion of a flush crept into Weston’s face; but, after all, a loose blue shirt and duck trousers are considered dress enough in the bush of the Pacific Slope, and he discarded the offending jacket. Miss Kinnaird, however, was not quite satisfied.
“Can’t you take up that ax and look as if you were ready to use it?” she said. “Oh, no! That is far too much like a waxwork! Hold up your head a little! Now, don’t move any more than you can help! I think that will do.”
Weston stood as he was for the best part of an hour. He felt inclined to wonder why he did it, as he had not found shoveling gravel anything like so difficult. Then Miss Kinnaird informed him that, as she desired to make a study of the background, she would not keep him any longer; and he strolled away to the waterside, where, after stretching himself wearily, he lay down and took out his pipe. He had not been there long when Ida, who came out from among the trees, sat down on one of the boulders not far from him.
“You must have been horribly cramped, but it didn’t strike Miss Kinnaird, or she wouldn’t have kept you there so long,” she said.
“No,” answered Weston, reflectively, “I don’t think it would strike Miss Kinnaird. She’s English, isn’t she?”
“Of course. But aren’t you English, too?”
Weston’s eyes twinkled.