Pen caught him up sharply. "Find white people here? You wouldn't. From the look of the place."
Both men were disconcerted by her brusqueness. Pen was horribly ashamed of herself. "I will not blush! ... I will not blush!" she said to herself, glaring out across the river. After the first glance she never looked at the young man again, but was nevertheless tinglingly conscious of his aspect; the fine lines of his body, his fair tanned skin, and always of those merry, speaking, wistful eyes. "What has happened to me? ... What has happened to me?" a little voice within her seemed to be wailing.
The young man tried to smooth things over. "What a heavenly spot! As I have already told your father, I'm loafing down the Bay in a canoe."
"What do you do when the wind blows?" asked the elder Pendleton.
"Oh, go ashore and sit and smoke by my fire."
"Don't you get lonely?"
A shadow crossed the young man's open countenance. "No, I'm fed up with people," he said shortly. "... That is, city people," he added with a glance through his lashes at Pen.
A sudden flame of jealousy burned Pen's breast. "There have been many women in his life!" And immediately: "Oh, what a fool I am!" she promptly added.
Pendleton glanced admonishingly at his daughter. Where was the courtesy to strangers for which the Broomes were famous? The glance was wasted upon Pen. An awkward silence resulted.
Finally the young man said politely: "I came to see if I could get some butter and eggs."