"But I thought--I read that you were giving house parties, attending race-meetings, and all that sort of thing. I came to Canada the week before you were married. I read about it and wondered who the happy man was." Angela's hand played with the running water. D'Arcy was scarcely more than an acquaintance, but at least he was one of her own set. Like a lot of other men, D'Arcy had made love to her and been repulsed. "Look here, I don't understand this," rejoined D'Arcy. "You--you aren't prospecting?" She nodded. "Great Scott! It's bad enough for men, but for a woman----!" He looked round. "Is your husband about?" "He's up the bank cutting a new pole." "I see." He gave her another searching look, the meaning of which was clear to her. In the same mute but eloquent language she gave him to understand the chief fact--she was unhappy. "To bring you here--to bring a cultured woman into a country like this----!" Words failed him. He touched her hand softly. "Where are you making for?" "A creek down the river called 'Red Ruin.' He has staked two claims there." He nodded reflectively. "I'm making for Dawson for some gear. I'll drop in and see you some day if I may?" "Do. I should enjoy a talk with you." "Your--your husband won't object?" "Does it matter?" He laughed and, shaking her hand, paddled his frail craft out into the stream. Looking up, she saw Jim coming down the bank, with the ax swinging in one hand and a new pole over his shoulder. He unfastened the rope and entered the boat. "Who was that?" he asked. "An old friend," she replied coldly. She saw his eyes flash as he threw his weight on the pole and sent the boat hurtling down the river. But for the bitterness rankling within her, she might have found time to admire her pilot. Big as he was, there was nothing ungainly about him. Every movement was beautiful in its perfect exhibition of muscular energy. The hard knotted muscles in his bare arms swelled and relaxed as they performed the work allotted them. Little beads of perspiration sparkled on the bare neck, and the wind played among the streaming mass of his black hair. But she had no eyes for this. From the moment when he had unceremoniously forced her on this journey of horror and desolation her wounded pride had smothered every other emotion. Her soul hungered for one thing--escape. Thwarted though her other attempts had been, she meant to try again. To try, and try, until he grew sick of holding a woman against her will. The unexpected genesis of D'Arcy raised her hopes to high pitch. They ultimately entered the narrow, sluggish creek, and Jim beached the boat on the northern side. She saw several stakes driven in the earth, and realized that these marked the boundaries of the two claims. They pitched the tent some distance from the claims--high up on the bank, to guard against the trickling water that ran down the bluff and into the creek.