At other times he felt her gaze upon him—­her eyes always glowing with the suggestion of silent mirth.  She seemed to be amused over the delicacy he exhibited—­to be wondering at it.  Whether she appreciated it or not he did not know, or care.  For he had noted other things that had increased his contempt of her.  She was betraying absolutely no perturbation over her enforced stay in the cabin with him.  On the contrary, her manner gave him the impression that she was enjoying herself and not thinking of the future.  She was contented with the present.

Moreover, he could not fail to be aware of her interest in him; for the many signs were infallible.  Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his shoulders—­all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her, convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided to win him.

But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the serious business of life.  He had never had time—­in his later years—­to yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth.  He had lived a rough, hard life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth—­a life that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.

Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton’s feminine blandishments.  He was grimly amused—­when he was not disgusted; though he continued to treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her from divining his emotions.

Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them.  There was nothing they could do.  Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating, or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there was no diversion except that of talking.  And, as the days dragged and the storm did not abate, even talking began to irk Lawler.  There would be periods during which they would be silent, listening to the howling and moaning of the wind—­hours at a stretch when the cold outside would seem to threaten, to tighten its constricting circle, when a great awe oppressed them; when it seemed that the whole world was snowbound, and that it would keep piling over and around them and all life would be extinct.

It was on the morning of the tenth day that Lawler began to notice that the dread monotony and the white, ever-present menace were beginning to affect the girl.  Her face was white and in her eyes was a haunting gleam of fear.  He noted how she clasped her hands; how she nervously twined and untwined her fingers, and how she kept pushing her chair toward him, as though for protection.

A swift sympathy seized him; he laughed, lowly, reaching out a hand and laying it lightly on her shoulder as she started at the sound of his voice and drew a quick, startled breath.