"Well, then, I can conceive of a girl—a very young girl—leaving wealth and friends, and even her art, for the man she loved, but—"
He waited a moment as a culprit listens to his judge. "But then—but in case—"
"If the girl were grown up and loved luxurious living, and shared an enthusiasm—say for art—then—" She broke off and said, wearily, "Then she might palter and measure values and weigh chances, and take account of the future and end by not marrying at all."
They had reached the gate and he spoke with perceivable effort: "I've no right to ask it, of course, but if you take pity on my loneliness at any time and write to me, your letters will be more welcome than it is seemly in me to say, and I'll promise not to bore you with further details of my 'Injines.' Will you be kind to me?"
"I will be glad to write," she replied, but in her voice was something he did not understand. As they entered the house Elsie said: "Captain Maynard, Captain Curtis is going out to-morrow morning to arrest that crazy Indian. Do you think he ought to go alone?"
"Certainly not! It would be too dangerous. He shall have an escort," replied Maynard, emphatically.
"No, no!" said Curtis, decisively. "I am safer to go unarmed and alone."
"George!" protested Jennie, "you shall not go out there alone. Why don't you send the police?"
Maynard here interposed. "Don't take on worry; I'll go with him myself."
This last hour in Elsie's company was a mingled pain and pleasure to Curtis, for she was most charming. She laid aside all hauteur, all perversity, and gave herself unreservedly to her good friends. They were all at high tension, and the talk leaped from jest to protest, and back to laughter again, agile and inconsequent. The time and the place, the past and the future, counted for little to these four, for they were young and they were lovers.