She threw her sweater-coat round her shoulders, for, even in the height of summer, the air grows chilly on the west coast as the sun goes down.
"You may smoke, Mr. Bremner. I know you are aching to do so."
I thanked her, pulled in my oars and lighted my pipe.
Mary Grant sat there, watching me in friendly interest, smiling in amusement in the charming way only she could smile.
"Do you know, I sometimes wonder," she said reflectively, "why it is that a man of your education, your prospective attainments, your ability, your physical strength and mental powers should keep to the bypaths of life, such as we find up here, when your fellows, with less intellect than you have, are in the cities, in the mining fields and on the prairies, battling with the world for power and fortune and getting, some of them, what they are battling for.
"I am not trying to probe into your privacy, but what I have put into words has often recurred to me regarding you. Somehow, you seem to have all the qualities that go to the making of a really successful business man."
"Do you really wonder why?" I smiled. "—And yet you profess to know me—a little."
It was an evening for closer friendships.
"If you promise for the future to call me George and permit me the privilege, when we are alone, of calling you Mary, I shall answer your query."
"All right,—George,—it's a bargain," she said. "Go ahead."