“You’ve missed a lot of fun, little Paula,” he told her through the cloud of smoke, which seemed of far greater interest to her than were his words. “If you’ve actually lived here all your life, as I’m beginning to believe you have. Never saw a man smoke; never tasted ice-cream or candy; never saw a two-year-old baby toddling around from one mishap to another; never saw a street-car, or a boat, or a man who had had a shave! By golly,” growing enthusiastic over it, “never ate a strawberry shortcake or had a cup of coffee! Whew!”
He put his hand into his pocket. He had seized his lunch from his pack hurriedly and at random. In his haste he had thought to pick out a can of beans and one of corn. He had eaten the beans, and had found that he had not brought the corn, but the one tin of peaches which he had brought with him from Belle Fortune.
Such things as peaches were luxuries; but Sheldon had known aforetime the hunger for sweets which will come to a man when he’s deep in the woods. He opened his knife, and under Paula’s bright eyes cut out a great circle in the tin top. He speared a half of a golden-yellow peach, and tasted it to reassure her. Then he gave her the can.
“Taste that,” he offered.
Paula tasted, a bit anxiously, taking out the peach with her finger-tips. There came into her expression something of utter surprise, then delight little short of ecstasy. And then—he marveled how daintily such an act could be performed—she licked the sirup from her fingers.
“Good?” he chuckled.
Paula smiled at him.
Smiled! The red lips parted prettily; the white teeth showed for a flashing instant. The smile warmed him, went dancing through his blood. It was a quick smile, quickly gone. The white teeth were busy with the second peach.
“They were nice,” said Paula. She had finished, and turned to him with a great sigh of satisfaction. Sheldon’s peaches were gone.
“I’ve got a slab of sweetened chocolate in my pack,” he told her, trying not to look surprised at the empty tin. “I’ll bring it to you. It’s like candy.”