"And so you are tired of us all, and want to go back," mused Phil, breaking one of the long, silent periods that in these days seemed so often to fall upon them when they found themselves alone.
"That's not quite fair, Phil," she returned gently. "You know it's not that."
"Well, then, tired of this"—his gesture indicated the sweep of the wide land—"tired of what we are and what we do?"
The girl stirred uneasily, but did not speak.
"I don't blame you," he continued, as if thinking aloud. "It must seem mighty empty to those who don't really know it."
"And don't I know it?" challenged Kitty. "You seem to forget that I was born here—that I have lived here almost as many years as you."
"But just the same you don't know," returned Phil gently. "You see, dear, you knew it as a girl, the same as I did when I was a boy. But now—well, I know it as a man, and you as a woman know something that you think is very different."
Again that long silence lay a barrier between them. Then Kitty made the effort, hesitatingly. "Do you love the life so very, very much, Phil?"
He answered quickly. "Yes, but I could love any life that suited you."
"No—no," she returned hurriedly, "that's not—I mean—Phil, why are you so satisfied here? There is so little for a man like you."