He watched her working for a few minutes before he spoke again.

And shading his eyes with one hand from the red glow of the fire, David Helmsley watched them both.
"Well, it's rather cool of me to take up your time talking about my own affairs,"-- began Reay, at last--"But I've been pretty much by myself for a good while, and it's pleasant to have a chat with friendly people--man wasn't made to live alone, you know! In fact, neither man nor beast nor bird can stand it.

Even a sea cormorant croaks to the wind!" Mary laughed.
"But not for company's sake,"-- she said--"It croaks when it's hungry." "Oh, I've often croaked for that reason!" and Reay pushed from his forehead a wayward tuft of hair which threatened to drop over his eye in a thick silvery brown curl--"But it's wonderful how little a fellow can live upon in the way of what is called food.

I know all sorts of dodges wherewith to satisfy the greedy cravings of the vulgar part of me." Helmsley took his hand from his eyes, and fixed a keenly observant look upon the speaker.

Mary said nothing, but her crochet needle moved more slowly.
"You see," went on Reay, "I've always been rather fortunate in having had very little to eat." "You call it 'fortunate' ?" queried Helmsley, abruptly.
"Why, of course! I've never had what the doctors call an 'overloaded system'-- therefore I've no lading bill to pay.