Cockney served himself a third helping of pork and beans and said nothing.
"Large men always wear masks," observed Isabel.
"And small men are as transparent as water, I suppose," complained Stamford indignantly.
Cockney was playing with his knife. "Perhaps Stamford knows he couldn't deceive if he tried. My personal experience of small men is they're seldom up to what they wish to appear. For instance, Stamford is physically broken. Would anyone suspect it? He seems to enjoy the aimless life out here, yet in town he works twelve hours a day with gusto. There's nothing to do about the Red Deer but loaf, yet he's never indolent. I don't try to understand them."
He had resumed his eating, but Stamford was uncomfortably conscious of more than banter in his words. Isabel spoke quickly:
"Anyone can see that Mr. Stamford's job is to sleep—and doze—and sleep again."
"In order not to give offence——"
"You wouldn't willingly give offence," she broke in, with a laugh so indulgent that to accept her words seriously would have been impertinence.
"I wish you'd teach Mary how to say that," said Cockney.
"Perhaps," suggested the Professor merrily, "she knows you better than Isabel does Mr. Stamford."