“Ah! what a privilege it is to have a lady at the table!” said Gault wrinkling up his eyes, and showing his big white teeth.
(Rather like the wolf in the fairy-tale; thought Loseis; but I suppose some would call him a fine-looking man.)
“Hear! Hear!” said Conacher. The young man felt like a hobbledehoy alongside the elegant Gault; but he harbored no malice. Poor Conacher’s heart was oppressed by the sight of Loseis in her bravery. Could this be the rude little spitfire that he had dared to laugh at upon their first meeting?
“That is what we miss in the North,” Gault went on; “the civilizing touch of lovely woman! It is terrible the way men go to seed in this country. It is a fact that when a man’s manners go, his morals are bound to go too. Ah! my dear Miss Blackburn, if we had more like you to grace our lonely posts we’d all be better men!”
(Why haven’t I the face to say such things? thought Conacher.)
Loseis smiled a little wanly. She was secretly confused by the trader’s glibness. She had never known a man like this.
Later they sat down in front of the small fire that had been lighted to drive away the evening chill; Loseis in her hammock-chair, the men on either hand sitting stiffly in the straight-up-and-down chairs that Blackburn had carved. What remained on the table was silently whisked into the kitchen.
“You may smoke if you wish,” said Loseis.
Gault produced, wonder of wonders! a full cigar case, and offered it to the younger man. The fragrance of the genuine Havana spread around.
“Well!” said Conacher; “I never expected to get anything like this north of Fifty-eight.”