"Yes," answered Geraldine, "it is beautiful and rugged, very different from your well-cared-for England, and I suppose it gets wilder as you travel north."
"It's the wildness that gets hold of one. I don't know when I was so happy as I was when hauling the canoe over portages, tracking her up rapids, and blowing rocks to bits. There must be a primitive strain in us that shows itself in the waste."
"It may be useful now and then, but indulging it doesn't make for progress. Even our Indians have found that out, and those who still cling to their primitive customs live miserably in skin tepees by catching fish. I dare say any of them could take a canoe up a rapid better than you."
"There's no doubt of that," Andrew responded. "But I don't see your drift."
"One gets impatient now and then with the cult of the physical, which they're so proud of here. It's good in a way, but it doesn't lead to much. For example, you can't continue finding valuable claims, and there must be something for you to do besides drilling holes for dynamite."
"Shooting pheasants is easier," Andrew smiled; "I can't say it's more useful."
"And is there nothing else?"
Andrew grew suddenly thoughtful.
"I'll confess to a hazy idea that if I succeeded in straightening up the Allinson affairs, I'd retire from the business while my laurels were fresh, and turn miner. The claims will need attention, and it would be more in my line than the management of the firm."
"You mean you would like it better?"