“May I ask you to excuse me, Mr. Blake? Is that sufficient?”
“Sufficient? It’s enough to give a fellow a chill! Come now; don’t go off mad. You know I’ve a quick temper. Can’t you make allowances?”
“You’ve–you’ve no right to look so angry, even if I did misunderstand you. You misunderstood me!” She caught herself up with a half sob. His silence gave her time to recover her composure. She continued with excessive politeness, “Need I repeat my request to be excused, Mr. Blake?”
“No; once is enough! But honest now, I didn’t mean to be nasty.”
“Good-day, Mr. Blake.”
“Oh, da-darn it, good-day!” he groaned.
When, a few minutes later, she returned, he was gone. He did not come back until some time after dark, when she had withdrawn to her lean-to for the night. His hands were bleeding from thorn scratches; but after a hasty supper, he went back down the cleft to build up the new wall of the barricade with the great stack of fresh thorn-brush that he had gathered during the afternoon.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE END OF THE WORLD
In the morning he met Miss Leslie with a sullen bearing, which, however, did not altogether conceal his desire to be on friendly terms. Having regained her self-control, she responded to this with such tact that by evening each felt more at ease in the new relationship, and Blake had lost every trace of his moroseness. The fact that both were passionately fond of music proved an immense help. It gave them an impersonal source of mutual sympathy and understanding,–a common meeting-ground in the world of art and culture, apart from and above the plane of their material wants.