It was the reaction, delayed by their talk. Self-accusation shone in
Lawler's eyes as he started toward her.
"I'm a box-head, Miss Wharton, for standing here, talking about nothing
at all, and you nearly freezing to death."
And then he halted, midway of the distance toward her, aware that he
could do nothing when he did reach her. And her manner warned him of
that, too, for she pulled the blanket closer around her and crowded as
far back into the bunk as she could get, looking at him with embarrassed
eyes.
"If you could get your clothes fixed," he began. "You see, Miss Wharton,
there wasn't much time, and we had to get them off mighty rapid. You can
see that we were none too gentle about it."
She blushed, and he abruptly turned his back and walked to the
fireplace. He stuck close to it until he heard her say:
"Won't you please hang my stockings up somewhere? They are so wet I
can't get them on."
The stockings, wet and limp, fell close beside him. He snatched them up,
grinning widely, though fearful that she might see the grin, and
carefully laid them over the back of a chair, pulling the chair close to
the fire.
Then he got out a frying-pan and began to prepare supper for her. When
the aroma of the sizzling bacon was wafted to her, he heard her exclaim:
"U-um, that smells good! Why, I am almost famished!"
Five minutes later, with a plate in her lap and a cup of steaming coffee
resting on the rail of the bunk, she was eating.
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