For a minute Hollister was tempted to turn the man away when he went
back up there in the morning. But that, he concluded with a shrug of
his shoulders, was carrying a mere fancy too far.
It did not therefore turn his thoughts into a more placid channel to
find, when he reached the house, Myra sitting in the kitchen talking
to Doris. Yet it was no great surprise. He had expected this, looked
forward to it with an uneasy sense of its inevitability.
Nothing could have been more commonplace, more uneventful than that
meeting. Doris introduced her husband. They were all at their ease.
Myra glanced once at his face and thereafter looked away. But her flow
of small talk, the conversational stop-gap of the woman accustomed to
social amenities, went on placidly. They were strangers, meeting for
the first time in a strange land.
Bland had gone up-river with Lawanne.
"Jim lives to hunt," Myra said with a short laugh. It was the first
and nearly the last mention of her husband she made that evening.
Hollister went out to wash himself in a basin that stood on a bench by
the back door.
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