"Of course he has," I snapped.
"That's nice," she murmured—knitting, knitting, knitting.
I expected her to ask who his friends were, and how he had made them. That was all in the letter. Moreover, it was in the part I had not read to her. But she abruptly abandoned this line of inquiry. She did not care. She let me smoke on.
Suddenly she dropped her work and asked, "Is that a footstep on the porch?"
"Footsteps! No—why, who did you think was coming?" I said.
"Mr. Weston promised to drop in on his way home from hunting—but I guess he'll disappoint me. I hoped it was he." She fell to her task again, only now she began to hum softly, thus shutting me off entirely.
For a very long while I endured it, but the time came when action of some kind was called for. We were not married, that I could sit forever smoking while she hummed. Even in Black Log, etiquette requires that a man talk to a woman when in her company; and when the woman ceases to listen, the wise man departs. That was just what I did not want to do, and only one alternative was left me. I got out the letter and held it under the light.
"You were asking about Tim's friends, Mary," said I.
"Was I?" she returned. "I had forgotten. What did I say?"
"You asked if he had made any friends," I replied, as calmly as I could. "I was going to read you what he said."