“Look here, Stella,” he blurted out, “it just grinds me to death to see you slaving away in this camp, feeding a lot of roughnecks.  Won’t you marry me and cut this sort of thing out?  We’d be no end good chums.”

She gently disengaged her hands, her chief sensation one of amusement, Abbey was in such an agony of blushing diffidence, all flustered at his own temerity.  Also, she thought, a trifle precipitate.  That was not the sort of wooing to carry her off her feet.  For that matter she was quite sure nothing Paul Abbey could do or say would ever stir her pulses.  She had to put an end to the situation, however.  She took refuge in a flippant manner.

“Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Abbey,” she smiled.  “But really I couldn’t think of inflicting repentance at leisure on you in that offhand way.  You wouldn’t want me to marry you just so I could resign the job of chef, would you?”

“Don’t you like me?” he asked plaintively.

“Not that way,” she answered positively.

“You might try,” he suggested hopefully.  “Honest, I’m crazy about you.  I’ve liked you ever since I saw you first.  I wouldn’t want any greater privilege than to marry you and take you away from this sort of thing.  You’re too good for it.  Maybe I’m kind of sudden, but I know my own mind.  Can’t you take a chance with me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, seeing him so sadly in earnest.  “It isn’t a question of taking a chance.  I don’t care for you.  I haven’t got any feeling but the mildest sort of friendliness.  If I married you, it would only be for a home, as the saying is.  And I’m not made that way.  Can’t you see how impossible it would be?”

“You’d get to like me,” he declared.  “I’m just as good as the next man.”

His smooth pink-and-white skin reddened again.

“That sounds a lot like tooting my own horn mighty strong,” said he.  “But I’m in dead earnest.  If there isn’t anybody else yet, you could like me just as well as the next fellow.  I’d be awfully good to you.”

“I daresay you would,” she said quietly.  “But I couldn’t be good to you.  I don’t want to marry you, Mr. Abbey.  That’s final.  All the feeling I have for you isn’t enough for any woman to marry on.”

“Maybe not,” he said dolefully.  “I suppose that’s the way it goes.  Hang it, I guess I was a little too sudden.  But I’m a stayer.  Maybe you’ll change your mind some time.”

He was standing very near her, and they were both so intent upon the momentous business that occupied them that neither noticed Charlie Benton until his hail startled them to attention.

“Hello, folks,” he greeted and passed on into the cook shanty, bestowing upon Stella, over Abbey’s shoulder, a comprehensive grin which nettled her exceedingly.  Her peaceful hour had been disturbed to no purpose.  She did not want to love or be loved.  For the moment she felt old beyond her years, mature beyond the comprehension of any man.  If she had voiced her real attitude toward Paul Abbey, she would have counseled him to run and play, “like a good little boy.”