"I think you'll be more comfortable on the bench," she suggested, and he returned to the rustic seat.
The pause was rather awkward, and she continued:
"I didn't mean to pry into your—sense of proportion, but thought you might have had bad news. That's why I asked. In a place like this, you know, where people are more or less detached from the usual worldly interests, they sometimes feel as though they might help each other without committing an unpardonable affront. That's all. Have you many more rights of way to secure before the road can go ahead?"
"I should like to think, Miss Jane," he replied, passing the matter of railroads, "that I really could turn to you for help sometimes. If there's a fellow in all the world who needs it, and who abominably hates to let people see he needs it, it's the luckless devil before you."
"If the world is to be kept in ignorance," she smiled, "you mustn't come into dark places and begin swearing unless you know they're uninhabited. It's romantic, but dangerous."
"Romantic things are always dangerous; ever think of that?"
"I haven't, but it isn't true," she answered.
"I can prove it without any trouble, but—" he arose, feeling his pockets, "my—er—cigarettes! Will you wait a few minutes?"
She bowed, and he went out; not for the cigarettes, but to a side window of the house where he beckoned Zack and told him to build, without delay, a toddy. For Brent had been considerably unstrung by the suddenness with which events moved across his stage since sunset, and he turned to this concoction for temporary steadiness. Then he lighted a cigarette and walked back to her in a more composed frame of mind.
"Now," he said, entering the cedars, "with your permission, why are romantic things dangerous?"