Keith. And they're all beasts out there--now--all except your
husband, and he is contented because he possesses the one white woman
aboard ship. It's putting it brutally plain, but it's the truth, isn't
it? For the time being they're beasts, every man of the twenty, and
you--pardon me!--are very beautiful. Rydal wants you, and the fact that
your husband is dying--"
"He is not dying," she interrupted him fiercely. "He shall not die! If he
did--"
"Do you love him?" There was no insult in Blake's quiet voice. He asked
the question as if much depended on the answer, as if he must assure
himself of that fact.
"Love him--my Peter? Yes!"
She leaned forward eagerly, gripping her hands in front of him on the
table. She spoke swiftly, as if she must convince him before he asked her
another question. Blake's eyes did not change. They had not changed for
an instant. They were hard, and cold, and searching, unwarmed by her
beauty, by the luster of her shining hair, by the touch of her breath as
it came to him over the table.
"I have gone everywhere with him--everywhere," she began. "Peter writes
books, you know, and we have gone into all sorts of places. We love
it--both of us--this adventuring. We have been all through the country
down there," she swept a hand to the south, "on dog sledges, in canoes,
with snowshoes, and pack-trains. Then we hit on the idea of coming north
on a whaler.
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