Beatrice was something of a hypocrite herself.
“I shall go where duty points the way.”
“I hope it points toward home, then.”
“It doesn't, though. It takes the trail you take.”
“I never yet allowed my wishes to masquerade as Disagreeable Duty, with two big D's,” she told him tartly, and started off.
“Say! If you're going up that hill, this is the trail. You'll bump up against a straight cliff if you follow that path.”
Beatrice turned with seeming reluctance and allowed him to guide her, just as she had intended he should do.
“Dick tells me you have been away,” she began suavely.
“Yes. I've just got back from Fort Belknap,” he explained quietly, though he must have known his absence had been construed differently. “I've rented pasturage on the reservation for every hoof I own. Great grass over there—the whole prairie like a hay meadow, almost, and little streams everywhere.”
“You are very fortunate,” Beatrice remarked politely.