She shot a swift, troubled glance at him, concluded herself mistaken, and said:
“Tell me about what you do up here—your life—all about it.”
“Well—” replied Thorpe formally, “we haven't much to interest a girl like you. It is a question of saw logs with us”—and he went on in his dryest, most technical manner to detail the process of manufacture. It might as well have been bricks.
The girl did not understand. She was hurt. As surely as the sun tangled in the distant pine frond, she had seen in his eyes a great passion. Now it was coldly withdrawn.
“What has happened to you?” she asked finally out of her great sincerity.
“Me? Nothing,” replied Thorpe.
A forced silence fell upon him. Hilda seemed gradually to lose herself in reverie. After a time she said softly.
“Don't you love this woods?”
“It's an excellent bunch of pine,” replied Thorpe bluntly. “It'll cut three million at least.”
“Oh!” she cried drawing back, her hands pressed against the log either side of her, her eyes wide.