“But even you felt how terrible it was . . . . and then–Oh, surely, you must see how–how embarrassing–”
It was Blake’s turn to look down and hesitate. She studied his face, her bosom heaving with quick-drawn breath; but she could make nothing of his square jaw and firm-set lips. His eyes were concealed by the brim of his leaf hat. When he spoke, seemingly it was to change the subject: “Guess you saw me making my hut. I’m fixing it so it’ll do me even when it rains.”
Had he been the kind of man that she had been educated to consider as alone entitled to the name of gentleman, she could have felt certain that he had intended the remark for a delicately worded assurance. But was Tom Blake, for all his blunt kindliness, capable of such tact? She chose to consider that he was.
“It’s a cunning little bungalow. But will not the rain flood you out?”
“It’s going to have a raised floor. You’re more like to have the rain drive in on you again. I’ll have to rig up a porch over your door. It won’t do to stuff up the hole. You’ve little enough air as it is. But that can wait a while. There’s other work more pressing. First, there’s the barricade. By the time that’s done, those hyena skins will be cured enough to use. I’ve got to have new trousers soon, and new shoes, too.”
“I can do the sewing, if you will cut out the pattern.”
“No; I’ll take a stagger at it myself first. I’d rather you’d go egging. You need to run around more, to keep in trim.”
“I feel quite well now, and I am growing so strong! The only thing is this constant heat.”
“We’ll have to grin and bear it. After all, it’s not so bad, if only we can stave off the fever. Another reason I want you to go for eggs is that you can take your time about it, and keep a look-out for steamers.”
“Then you think –?”