She had been too exacting, she told herself. Men had ways of dealing with one another which women could not understand. Her ideas of justice were tempered with mercy and pity; she allowed her heart to map out her line of conduct toward her fellow men, and as a consequence her sympathies were broad and tender. In business, though, she supposed, it must be different. There mind must rule. It was a struggle in which the keenest wit and the sharpest instinct counted, and in which the emotion of mercy was subordinate to the love of gain. And so in time she erected her idol again and the cracks and seams in it became almost invisible.
While she had been restoring her idol there had been other things to occupy her mind. A thin line divides tragedy from comedy, and after the tragedy of discovering her father’s real character Sheila longed for something to take her mind out of the darkness. A recollection of Duncan’s jealousy, which he had exhibited on the day that she had related the story of her rescue by Dakota, still abided with her, and convinced that she might secure diversion by fanning the spark that she had discovered, she began by inducing Duncan to ask her to ride with him.
Sitting on the grass one day in the shade of some fir-balsams on a slope several miles down the river, Sheila looked at Duncan with a smile.
“I believe that I am beginning to like the country,” she said.
“I expected you would like it after you were here a while. Everybody does. It grows into one. If you ever go back East you will never be contented—you’ll be dreaming and longing. The West improves on acquaintance, like the people.”
“Meaning?” she said, with a defiant mockery so plain in her eyes that Duncan drew a deep breath.
“Meaning that you ought to begin to like us—the people,” he said.
“Perhaps I do like some of the people,” she laughed.
“For instance,” he said, his face reddening a little.
She looked at him with a taunting smile. “I don’t believe that I like you—so very well. You get too cross when things don’t suit you.”