“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Now you just come along to the shack and have Jess fix it up again. She’s pretty near as good as a doctor. And seein’ she’s partly responsible, it’s no more’n fair. There ain’t no use you makin’ a hermit of yourself.” I attempted to dodge this invitation, which seemed to savor of command. Montell’s semi-jocoseness rather jarred on me. For one thing his heartiness didn’t quite ring true. Possibly I misjudged him. He could have had no particular motive for posing on my account. But I got the impression that his solicitude was of the lip rather than of the heart. While I had passed a very pleasant evening with them, I did not contemplate making myself at home in the Montell cabin, by any means. I had a vague feeling that it involved disloyalty to Barreau. Montell, however, was quite insistent, and as I had no forthright reason for being churlish I ended by going with him. He made a great fuss at helping me off with my coat, and while he hovered over me in his ponderous way Miss Montell came out of the other room. She nodded to me and smiled a greeting, whereupon he, busying himself with hanging my coat and hat upon a peg, plunged into a jesting account of my reluctance to leave my own fireside, relating with much detail what he said and what I said, and how I owed it to my arm to have it well cared for, and so on—till I wearied of his gabble. I don’t think she listened half the time. She moved about the room, getting a basin and warm water and other first, or perhaps I should say second, aids to the injured. And she washed and bandaged afresh the laceration, with an impersonal absorption in the task that I half resented. When she had finished, breakfast, hot from the cookhouse, was brought by one of the “breed” women, and Miss Montell seated herself at the table and airily waved her father and myself to places on her right and left.