Her calm,
unruffled acceptance of his incivility filled him with a cold
resentment.
"What did you say?" she demanded of him from the door.
He turned sullenly. The light mockery in her voice stung him, shamed
him--her eyes, dancing with mischief, held his.
"Good night," he said shortly.
"Good night," she said again. She laughed and vanished.
For an instant Calumet stood, scowling at the vacant doorway. Then he
turned and went over to the table in the kitchen, looking down at the
food and the dishes. She had compelled him to be civil. He gripped
one end of the table cloth, and for an instant it seemed as though he
meditated dumping dishes and food upon the floor. Then he grinned,
grimly amused, and sat in the chair before the table, taking up knife
and fork.
Early as he arose the next morning, he found that Betty had been before
him. He saw her standing on the rear porch when he went out to care
for his horse, and she smiled and called a greeting to him, which he
answered soberly.
For some reason which he could not explain he felt a little reluctance
toward going into the kitchen for breakfast this morning. Yet he did
go, though he waited outside until Betty came to the door and called
him. He was pretending to be busy at his saddle, though he knew this
was a pretext to cover his submission to her.
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