"I wonder if it has ever occurred to you that there are things money can't get you?" Rod said quietly. "This place happens to be one of those things."
Wall chewed his cigar, impassively reflecting. Rod turned away.
"Three hundred thousand," Wall said suddenly.
Rod shook his head.
"No use. I wouldn't sell Hawk's Nest any more than you'd sell one of your ears. I was born here. My people have been born and lived and died and are buried here. Very old-fashioned notion, of course, but it happens to mean something to me. And please remember this, Wall. If it had to pass out of my hands, you would be the last man in the world I'd care to have hang up your hat here and call it home."
He left Wall to reflect on that.
A shrill blast from the high-lead donkey put an end to the day's work. Men came stringing out of the woods. In twenty minutes more the supper gong clanged.
As they sat at dinner Rod told Isabel of her father's offer. Isabel smiled cynically.
"Don't ever think the idea of any sort of restitution occurred to him, Rod," she declared. "He wouldn't even understand the idea of such a thing. He has always admired this place, secretly longed to have something like it, and he has discrimination enough to know he couldn't create it in his lifetime. He'd buy Hawk's Nest like a shot. He has dreams of founding a Wall dynasty, I really believe. A place like this, made to order, with its history—why, he'd gloat over it. The parvenu idea of acquiring prestige by purchase—by proxy. I know I sound horrid, but it's true. He thinks the Norquays have gone to seed. And that the Walls only require a proper background to be somebody. It's amusing and sometimes almost tragic—this social pushing, this itch to be thought something you aren't, to make a big splash. Did he seem keen on it, Rod?"
"Rather."