Well, what of it, Hollister asked himself?  It was nothing to him.  He was a disinterested bystander now.  But looking down on Bland’s cabin, he reflected that his irritation was rooted in the fact that he did not want to be a bystander.  He desired to eliminate Myra Bland and all that pertained to her from even casual contact with him.  It seemed absurd that he should feel himself to be in danger.  But he had a dim sense of danger.  And instead of the aloofness which he desired, he seemed to see vague threads drawing himself and Doris and Myra Bland and this man Mills closer and closer together, to what end or purpose he could not tell.

For a minute Hollister was tempted to turn the man away when he went back up there in the morning.  But that, he concluded with a shrug of his shoulders, was carrying a mere fancy too far.

It did not therefore turn his thoughts into a more placid channel to find, when he reached the house, Myra sitting in the kitchen talking to Doris.  Yet it was no great surprise.  He had expected this, looked forward to it with an uneasy sense of its inevitability.

Nothing could have been more commonplace, more uneventful than that meeting.  Doris introduced her husband.  They were all at their ease.  Myra glanced once at his face and thereafter looked away.  But her flow of small talk, the conversational stop-gap of the woman accustomed to social amenities, went on placidly.  They were strangers, meeting for the first time in a strange land.

Bland had gone up-river with Lawanne.

“Jim lives to hunt,” Myra said with a short laugh.  It was the first and nearly the last mention of her husband she made that evening.

Hollister went out to wash himself in a basin that stood on a bench by the back door.  He felt a relief.  He had come through the first test casually enough.  A slightly sardonic grimace wrinkled his tight-lipped mouth.  There was a grim sort of humor in the situation.  Those three, whose lives had got involved in such a tangle, forgathered under the same roof in that lonely valley, each more or less a victim of uncomprehended forces both within and exterior to themselves.  Yet it was simple enough.  Each, in common with all humanity, pursued the elusive shadow of happiness.  The diverging paths along which they pursued it had brought them to this common point.

Hollister soaped and scrubbed to clean his hands and face of the sweat and dirt of his day’s labor.  Above the wash bench Myra’s face, delicately pink and white and framed by her hair that was the color of strained honey, looked down at him through an open window.  Her blue eyes rested on him, searchingly, he thought, with a curious appraisal, as if he were something to be noted and weighed and measured by the yardstick of her estimation of men.  If she only knew, Hollister reflected sardonically, with his face buried in the towel, what a complete and intimate knowledge she had of him!