He went in to find her seated at a plain wooden table with grey flannel spread around her, her hand poised on the wheel of her machine, which she drove round vigorously as he entered.  Her light eyes surveyed him in momentary surprise, and then fell straight upon her work.  A slightly deeper colour suffused her face.

“You’ve come early,” she said.

“Good morning!” said Burke.

She nodded without speaking, absorbed in her work.

He came to a stand on the opposite side of the table, watching her.  He was quite well aware that Matilda Merston did not like him.  She had never scrupled to let him know it.  The whirr of the machine rose between them.  She was working fast and furiously.

He waited with absolute patience till she flung him a word.  “Sit down!”

He seated himself facing her.

Faster and faster spun the wheel.  Matilda’s thin lips were compressed.  Tiny beads appeared on her forehead.  She was breathing quickly.  Suddenly there was a check, a sharp snap.  She uttered an impatient sound and stopped, looking across at her visitor with undisguised hostility in her eyes.

“I didn’t do it,” said Burke.

She got up, not deigning a reply.  “I suppose you’d like a drink,” she said.  “Bill is out on the lands.”

His eyes comprehended her with a species of grim amusement.  “No.  I won’t have anything, thanks.  I have come for my wife.  Can you tell me where she is ?”

“You’re very early,” Matilda remarked again.

He leaned his arms upon the table, looking up at her.  “Yes.  I know.  Isn’t she up?”

She returned his look with obvious disfavour.  And yet Burke Ranger was no despicable figure of manhood sitting there.  He was broad, well-knit, well-developed, clean of feature, with eyes of piercing keenness.

He met her frown with a faint smile.  “Well?” he said.

“Yes.  Of course she is up.”  Grudgingly Matilda made answer.  Somehow she resented the clean-limbed health of these men who made their living in the wilderness.  There was something almost aggressive about it.  Abruptly she braced herself to give utterance to her thoughts.  “Why can’t you leave her here a little longer?  She doesn’t want to go back.”

“I think she must tell me that herself,” Burke said.

He betrayed no discomfiture.  She had never seen him discomfited.  That was part of her grievance against him.

“She won’t do that,” she said curtly.  “She has old-fashioned ideas about duty.  But it doesn’t make her like it any the better.”

“It wouldn’t,” said Burke.  A gleam that was in no way connected with his smile shone for a moment in his steady eyes, but it passed immediately.  He continued to contemplate the faded woman before him very gravely, without animosity.  “You have got rather fond of Sylvia, haven’t you?” he said.

Matilda made an odd gesture that had in it something of vehemence.  “I am very sorry for her,” she said bluntly.