"I surely do," he replied, "when I remember what an awful mess I made
of it on the start. I certainly did spoil a lot of good grub."
After that they divided the household duties, and Hazel forgot that she
had vowed to make Bill Wagstaff wait on her hand and foot as the only
penalty she could inflict for his misdeeds. It seemed petty when she
considered the matter, and there was nothing petty about Hazel Weir.
If the chance ever offered, she would make him suffer, but in the
meantime there was no use in being childish.
She did not once experience the drear loneliness that had sat on her
like a dead weight the last month before she turned her back on
Granville and its unhappy associations. For one thing, Bill Wagstaff
kept her intellectually on the jump. He was always precipitating an
argument or discussion of some sort, in which she invariably came off
second best. His scope of knowledge astonished her, as did his
language. Bill mixed slang, the colloquialisms of the frontier, and
the terminology of modern scientific thought with quaint impartiality.
There were times when he talked clear over her head. And he was by
turns serious and boyish, with always a saving sense of humor.
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