"It is too bad. But Mr. Marsh told us all about it before you came. Boyd, I never thought well of this enterprise. Of course, I didn't say anything against it, you were so enthusiastic, but you really ought to try something big. I am sure you have the ability. Why, the successful men I know at home have no more intelligence than you, and they haven't half your force. As for this—well, I think you can accomplish more important things than catching fish."
"Important!" he cried. "Why, the salmon industry is one of the most important on the Coast. It employs ten thousand men in Alaska alone, and they produce ten million dollars every year."
"Oh, let's not go into statistics," said Mildred, lightly; "they make my head ache. What I mean is that a fisherman is nothing like—an attorney or a broker or an architect, for instance; he is more like a miner. Pardon me, Boyd, but look at your clothes." She began to laugh. "Why, you look like a common laborer!"
He became conscious for the first time that he cut a sorry figure. Everything around him spoke of wealth and luxury. Even the sailor that passed at the moment was better dressed than he. He felt suddenly awkward and out of place.
"I might have slicked up a bit," he acknowledged, lamely; "but when you came, I forgot everything else."
"I was dreadfully embarrassed when I introduced you to the Berrys and the rest. I dare say they thought you were one of Mr. Marsh's foremen."
Never before had Boyd known the least constraint in Mildred's presence, but now he felt the rebuke behind her careless manner, and it wounded him deeply. He did not speak, and after a moment she went on, with an abrupt change of subject:
"So that funny little house over there against the hill is where the mysterious woman lives?"
"Who?"
"Cherry Malotte."