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He looked at her, peering into her face, and there was nothing to guide him. He saw only a curious expectancy and a faint deepening of the color in her cheeks. "Don't go back to the Euclataws, Doris," he said at last. "I love you. I want you. I need you. Do you feel as if you liked me enough to take a chance? "For it is a chance," he finished abruptly.
"No fisherman can get the prices you have had lately. No cannery can pack salmon at those prices. Sockeye, the finest canning salmon that swims in the sea, is bringing eighty cents on the Fraser. Bluebacks are sixty-five cents at Nanaimo, sixty at Cape Mudge, sixty at the Euclataws. "I can do a little better than that," MacRae hesitated a second.
"Well, then, we'll see about a place on Valdez Island at the Euclataws, where I can clear up some land and grow things, and fish salmon when they run, as we talked about." "That would be nice, and I dare say we would get on very well," Doris said. "But I'd rather go to the Toba." Hollister did not want to go to the Toba.
They were courteous, but painfully self-conscious in his presence, and Hollister was still acutely sensitive about his face. By the time that April Fool's Day was a week old on the calendar, Hollister began to be haunted by a gloomy void which would engulf him soon, for Doris told him one evening that in another week she was going back to the Euclataws.
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