She resembled somebody he knew or whom he had met. Where? When? He
gave it up at last and strolled out of doors--lighted his pipe and
sauntered down the hill toward the devilish thing of canvas and wire
that had brought her here. He knew nothing of a‘roplanes, but
even to his unskilled eye it was apparent that without repairs the
thing would fly no more, for the canvas covering flapped suggestively
in the wind. A broken wing! And the bird was in his cage. His
situation--and hers--began to assume unpleasant definiteness. For
three days at least, until his supply boat arrived, from the mainland,
they would be prisoners here together. A pretty prospect!

He strolled to his belated canvas and stood for a while puffing at his
pipe, his mind still pondering gloomily over his neglected foreground.
then regretfully, tenderly, he undid the clips that fastened the
canvas, unlooped the cords from his stone anchors, wiped his brushes,
shut his paint-box and moved slowly up the hill toward the house, his
mind protestingly adjusting itself to the situation. What was he to do
with this surprising female until the boat arrived. Common decency
demanded hospitality, and of course he must give it to her, his bed,
his food, his time. That was the thing he begrudged her most--the long
wonderful daylight hours in this chosen spot, the hourly calls of sea
and sky in his painters' paradise. Silly little fool! If she had had
to tumble why couldn't she have done it on the West shore where there
were women, doctors and medicines?

He placed the canvas and easel against the corner of his house,
knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot and cautiously peered
around the jamb of the door to find his unwelcome guest sitting on the
edge of the bed smoking a cigarette. He straightened sheepishly, not
knowing whether to grin or to scowl. Neither of them spoke for a