me you're not starting off just right."

Rose hastened to prepare the meal, finding it more difficult to
be cheerful as she realized how indifferent Martin was to her
feelings, if only she presented a smooth surface. He had not
seemed even to notice how orderly and freshened everything was.
She thought of the new experience soon to be hers. Could it make
up for all the understanding and friendly appreciation that she
saw only too clearly would be missing in her daily life?
Resolutely, she suppressed her doubts.

Martin, bothered by an odd feeling of strangeness in the midst of
his own familiar surroundings, smoked his pipe in silence and
studied Rose soberly. Why, he asked himself, was he unmoved by a
woman who was so attractive? He liked the deftness with which her
hands worked the pie dough, the quick way she moved between stove
and table, yet mingled with this admiration was a slight but
distinct hostility. How can one like and have an aversion to a
person at the same time? he pondered. "I suppose," he concluded
grimly, "it's because I'm supposed to love and adore her--to
pretend a lot of extravagant feelings."

His mind travelled to the stock in the pasture. How stolid they
were and how matter of fact and how sensible. They affected no
high, nonsensical sentiments. Weren't they, after all, to be
envied, rooted as they were in their solid simplicity? Why should
human beings everlastingly try so hard to be different? He and
Rose would have to get down to a genuine basis, and the quicker
the better. Meanwhile he must remember that, whether he was glad
or sorry, she was there, in his shack, because he had asked her