“We shall have to do whatever is best for yourself,” I managed to answer. “That will be determined when we reach the stage line, I suppose.”
“Thank you. Once at the stage line and I shall contrive. You must have no thought of me. I understand very well that we should not travel far in company—and you may not wish to go in my direction. You have plans of your own?”
“None of any great moment. Everything has failed me, to date. There is only the one place left: New York State, where I came from. I probably can work my way back—at least, until I can recoup by telegraph message and the mails.”
“You have one more place than I,” she replied. 263 She hesitated. “Will you let me lend you some money?”
“I’ve been paid my wages due,” said I. “But,” I added, “you have a place, you have a home: Benton.”
“Oh, Benton!” She laughed under breath. “Never Benton. I shall make shift without Benton.”
“You will tell me, though?” I urged. “I must have your address, to know that you reach safety.”
“You are strictly business. I believe that I accused you before of being a Yankee.” And I read sarcasm in her words.
Her voice had a quality of definite estimation which nettled, humbled, and isolated me, as if I lacked in some essential to a standard set.
“So you are going home, are you?” she resumed. “With the clothes on your back, or will you stop at Benton for your trunk?”