Very neatly he switched off the head of a withered flower with his stick, and began, “The Klondike—”
“It’s rather horrid of you,” Hildegarde interrupted, “but of course I know—you—you’re only seeing how I’d take it—”
“I shan’t be here to see how you’ll take it.”
She set down the watering can. “You surely won’t dream of doing anything so foolish—so—so—dangerous.”
He didn’t answer, and she walked beside him down the path to the lower gate. When they got beyond the group of conifers, she stopped. “You simply mustn’t.”
“Why do you say that? You don’t care where I go.”
“You know quite well I do.”
He didn’t even look at her, and he shook his head. Then, after a little pause, “Who knows, you might even come to feel differently about things—if—if—”
“Do you mean”—Hildegarde drew herself up—“if you came home a millionaire?”