"With you, too," she laughed, pressing against his shoulder. "I don't want to go to the parties alone."
"Well, I guess if you ever go it'll have to be alone," he said roughly.
She understood now that she had said something that annoyed him, and not knowing how she had come to do it, felt aggrieved and sought to justify herself:
"But we can't live here always. If we make money we'll want to go back some day where there are people, and comforts and things going on. We'll want friends, everybody has friends. You don't mean for us always to stay far away from everything in these wild, uncivilized places?"
"Why not?" he said, not looking at her, noting her rueful tone and resenting it.
"But we're not that kind of people. You're not a real mountain man. You're not like Zavier or the men at Fort Laramie. You're Napoleon Duchesney just as I'm Susan Gillespie. Your people in St. Louis and New Orleans were ladies and gentlemen. It was just a wild freak that made you run off into the mountains. You don't want to go on living that way. That part of your life's over. The rest will be with me."
"And you'll want the cities and the parties?"
"I'll want to live the way Mrs. Duchesney should live, and you'll want to, too." He did not answer, and she gave his arm a little shake and said, "Won't you?"
"I'm more Low Courant than I am Napoleon Duchesney," was his answer.
"Well, maybe so, but whichever you are, you've got a wife now and that makes a great difference."