"I was thinking of this shack of mine. I was just thinking, Betty, what a heap of difference an elegant coat of paint makes to things. You see, they're just the same underneath, but they—kind of look different with paint on 'em, kind of please the eye more."
"Just so," the girl nodded wisely. "And so you laughed—in that way."
Dave's eyes twinkled.
"You're too sharp," he said. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
"Now about this picnic. You're expecting all the grown folk?"
The girl's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Of course I do. Don't you always come? It's only once a year." The last was very like a reproach.
The man avoided her eyes. He was looking out across the sea of stacked timber at the great sheds beyond, where the saws were shrieking out their incessant song.
"I was thinking," he began awkwardly, "that I'm not much good at those things. Of course I guess I can hand pie round to the folks; any fellow can do that. But——"
"But what?" The girl had risen from her seat and was trying to compel his gaze.