“Thanks.  I’ve already declined one pressing invitation to that effect,” Stella returned drily.  His matter-of-fact assurance rather nettled her.

“A woman always has the privilege of changing her mind,” Fyfe smiled.  “Charlie is going to be at my camp for at least three weeks.  It’ll rain soon, and the days’ll be pretty gray and dreary and lonesome.  You might as well pack your war-bag and come along.”

She stood uncertainly.  Her tongue held ready a blunt refusal, but she did not utter it; and she did not know why.  She did have a glimpse of the futility of refusing, only she did not admit that refusal might be of no weight in the matter.  With her mind running indignantly against compulsion, nevertheless her muscles involuntarily moved to obey.  It irritated her further that she should feel in the least constrained to obey the calmly expressed wish of this quiet-spoken woodsman.  Certain possible phases of a lengthy sojourn in Jack Fyfe’s camp shot across her mind.  He seemed of uncanny perception, for he answered this thought before it was clearly formed.

“Oh, you’ll be properly chaperoned, and you won’t have to mix with the crew,” he drawled.  “I’ve got all kinds of room.  My boss logger’s wife is up from town for a while.  She’s a fine, motherly old party, and she keeps us all in order.”

“I haven’t had any lunch,” she temporized.  “Have you?”

He shook his head.

“I rowed over here before twelve.  Thought I’d get you back to camp in time for dinner.  You know,” he said with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “a logger never eats anything but a meal.  A lunch to us is a snack that you put in your pocket.  I guess we lack tone out here.  We haven’t got past the breakfast-dinner-supper stage yet; too busy making the country fit to live in.”

“You have a tremendous job in hand,” she observed.

“Oh, maybe,” he laughed.  “All in the way you look at it.  Suits some of us.  Well, if we get to my camp before three, the cook might feed us.  Come on.  You’ll get to hating yourself if you stay here alone till Charlie’s through.”

Why not?  Thus she parleyed with herself, one half of her minded to stand upon her dignity, the other part of her urging acquiescence in his wish that was almost a command.  She was tempted to refuse just to see what he would do, but she reconsidered that.  Without any logical foundation for the feeling, she was shy of pitting her will against Jack Fyfe’s.  Hitherto quite sure of herself, schooled in self-possession, it was a new and disturbing experience to come in contact with that subtle, analysis-defying quality which carries the possessor thereof straight to his or her goal over all opposition, which indeed many times stifles all opposition.  Force of character, overmastering personality, emanation of sheer will, she could not say in what terms it should be described.  Whatever it was, Jack Fyfe had it.  It existed, a factor to be reckoned with when one dealt with him.  For within twenty minutes she had packed a suitcase full of clothes and was embarked in his rowboat.