"Oh, I can stand anything now—after your trains——"
"You'll be bored to death."
"I'm always bored to death. But, then, this place may have the charm of boring me in an entirely new way. After all," she sighed, "I might as well be bored here as at home."
Wray got up without speaking and walked to the window which overlooked the plains. He stood here a moment, his hands behind his back, the look of perplexity deepening on his face. Somehow Rita Cheyne didn't seem accessory to the rather grim background of his thoughts. For days he had been acting the leading part in what now promised to be a tragedy. Rita belonged to satirical comedy or, at the best, to the polite melodrama. Something of this she suddenly read in his attitude, wondering why she had not discerned it before. She got up and went over to him.
"What is it, Jeff? You're changed somehow out here. You seem older, bigger, browner, more thoughtful."
"This is where I work, Rita," he said with a slow smile. "In New York we Westerners only play. I am older—yes, more thoughtful, too. I've had a good deal to worry me——"
"Yes, I know. I think Cortland Bent has been behaving very badly."
Jeff made a quick gesture of protest.
"I didn't mean that," he said abruptly. "My worries are business worries."
"Oh! I intruded."