"No bother. It is the only place," as she ascended the steps and opened the door, turning to wait for him.
He was impelled to refuse curtly this strange hospitality and sought for some retort that would sting her as she had stung him. None came, but, as he stood looking up at the girl while her eyes followed Black Joe and his inert burden into the near-by building, he smiled rather grimly. He knew women. She chose to ignore him; he would let her go to the end of her rope and bring her up as shortly as the wolf dog had brought up against her chain. He followed her into the house.
A lean, tall woman was sweeping the carpeted floor, a cloth tied over her head.
"Aunty May," said the girl, "this man is going to stay with us tonight. Will you show him the room?"
The woman also eyed Taylor sourly. The girl had drawn off her jacket and was approaching an old-fashioned walnut desk beneath a window.
"My name, " he said coolly, "is Taylor. I think I know who you are."
She turned and he saw interest at last in her face. He felt no regret that to impress her he had been forced to bludgeon through her indifference with his father's identity.
"You're here, then, to look after your father's logs?"
"Yes," and the satisfaction he had derived by shaking her aloofness was engulfed in apprehension again.
"Well," said the older woman testily, "do you want to stand here and gas or put that satchel away?"
After the girl's manner this grumpiness was burlesque. Taylor grinned and followed her across the room to the open stairway.
