"Did he come?"
"No, he couldn't think that fast. He just stood still, looking at me, while I threw her open, and you could see his lantern for a mile back—he never moved. He had a good six-mile walk back to the last station."
There was a long silence. Bannon got up and walked slowly up and down the enclosure with his hands deep in his pockets.
"I wish this would let up," he said, after a time, pausing in his walk, and looking again at the window. "It's a wonder we're getting things done at all."
Hilda's eye, roaming over the folded newspaper, fell on the weather forecast.
"Fair tomorrow," she said, "and colder."
"That doesn't stand for much. They said the same thing yesterday. It's a worse gamble than wheat."
Bannon took to walking again; and Hilda stepped down and stood by the window, spelling out the word "Calumet" with her ringer on the misty glass. At each turn, Bannon paused and looked at her. Finally he stood still, not realizing that he was staring until she looked around, flushed, and dropped her eyes. Then he felt awkward, and he began turning over the blue prints on the table.
"I'll tell you what I'll have to do," he said. "I rather think now I'll start on the third for Montreal, I'm telling you a secret, you know. I'm not going to let Brown or MacBride know where I'll be. And if I can pick up some good pictures of the river, I'll send them to you. I'll get one of the Montmorency Falls, if I can. They're great in winter."
"Why—why, thank you," she said. "I'd like to have them."