"Forgive me if I do anything you don't understand," he begged.
"For weeks past I have been wondering how I would act when I met
white people again. Perhaps you can't understand. But eighteen
months up there--eighteen months without the sound of a white
woman's voice, without a glimpse of her face, with only dreams to
live on--will make me queer for a time. Can't you understand--a
little?"

"A great deal," she replied so quickly that she put him at ease
again. "Back there I couldn't quite believe you. I am beginning to
now. You are honest. But let us not talk of ourselves until after
dinner. Do you like the cake?"

She had given him a piece as large as his fist, and he bit off the
end of it.

"Delicious!" he cried instantly. "Think of it--nothing but
bannock, bannock, bannock for two years, and only six ounces of
that a day for the last six months! Do you care if I eat the whole
of it--the cake, I mean?"

Seriously she began cutting the remainder of the cake into
quarters.

"It would be one of the biggest compliments you could pay me," she
said. "But won't you have some boiled tongue with it, a little
canned lobster, a pickle--"

"Pickles!" he interrupted. "Just cake and pickles--please! I've
dreamed of pickles up there. I've had 'em come to me at night as