She fidgeted and looked away. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed.
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