plexity between his brows; she, dusky, receptive, immobile, holding her baby to her breast.
He felt the allure of her presence in that remembered quiver of the nerves, but, pushing the sensation from him, he said.
"Now, I'm going to send Mrs. Machin to you. She'll fix you up for the night."
"No, I won't have her," with a stubborn shake of the head. "I'm scared of her, Durek. Just leave me here and I'll lay on the bed as nice as anything. I won't have that ole woman scoldin' me. I've had enough scoldin'."
"Very well. But I'll get her to give me some sheets and you can make your own bed."
"Sheets! My goodness"—her lips curved into a smile—"I would like sheets—and a white piller-case."
"Well," said Mrs. Machin, when he had told her as much of the story as he thought was good for her to know, "so you expect me to wait on an Indian girl and her bastard brat, eh? Give 'em my best sheets, eh? And towels with rick-rack on the ends? What do you take me for, Mr. Vale? A simpleton?" Mrs. Machin was making the porridge for breakfast, and now she stirred it with all her might, and whacked the wooden porridge stick that was nearly as old as she, on the side of the porridge pot. "What do you take me for, Mr. Vale?" she repeated. "A simpleton to let a dirty Indian into one of my bedrooms? How should I get rid of her again—"
"I'll see to that."
"You've seen to about enough," she retorted grimly. "You haven't told me who that child belongs to, but I know what everybody'll say. They'll say it's yours. Now
