The sound of his voice reassured her—it was calm, quiet, confident. Some color came back into her face, and she smiled.
"I believe I was beginning to get the doldrums," she said.
"That wouldn't be startling, Miss Wharton. Life in a line camp does become monotonous. It is to be expected. It becomes tragic. Also, it has a humorous side—viewed from a distance—chiefly afterward. In the fall, men go into line camps fast friends. We always pair them that way. Any other method would be fatal, for when the men come out in the spring they invariably are deadly enemies. You can imagine what would happen if we sent into a line cabin two men who did not think well of each other."
She shuddered and snuggled closer to him, letting her head fall to his shoulder. A pulse of pity stirred him, and he permitted her head to stay where she had laid it, while he gently smoothed her hair.
He would have done as much for any woman in her position; the emotion that filled him was entirely that of pity. She was vain and frivolous—employing every artifice, but she was a woman despite that, and entitled, in the present circumstances, to what comfort and sympathy he could give her.
However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She had been a trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside had seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life—the life she loved so well—and she had been just a little afraid.
But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy—the quick glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.
She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head so that she could look into his eyes.
"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."
"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight at her.