“That’s so; the influence is strong and good, on the whole.”
She considered this, quietly studying him. It was the first time she had entertained at table a man in outdoor working attire; Prescott, out of deference to his guests, had made some preparation for the meals they shared. Still, the simple dress became him; he was, as she vaguely thought of it, admirable, in a way. His hands and wrists were well-shaped, though scarred and roughened by the rasp of the hot straw. The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to his brown face; a joyous vitality emanated from him, and he had mental gifts. She felt lightly thrilled by his propinquity.
“But everything out here is still very crude,” she said.
“That’s where our strength lies; we’re a new people, raised on virgin soil out in the rushing winds. We haven’t simmered down yet; we’re charged with unexhausted energies, which show themselves in novel ways. In our cities you’ll find semibarbarous rawness side by side with splendor and art, and complicated machines run by men who haven’t much regard for the fastidious niceties of civilization, though they’re unexcelled in their engineering skill. We undertake big works in an unconsidered manner that would scare your cautious English minds, make wild blunders, and go ahead without counting the damage. We come down pretty hard often, but it never brings us to a stop.”
He saw that she did not grasp all he meant to convey, and he leaned back in his chair with a laugh.
“This is the kind of fool talk you would expect from a boastful Westerner, isn’t it?”
“No,” she replied somewhat formally; “that isn’t what I thought. I find everything I see and hear interesting, but there’s much I can’t understand. One has to feel for its meaning.”
“It’s a very proper attitude,” he rejoined with amusement. “So long as you don’t bring over a ready-made standard to measure our shortcomings by, we’ll explain all we can. In fact, it’s a thing we’re fond of doing.” Then his tone grew grave. “But I haven’t seen your father since this morning. Is he at the muskeg?”
“Yes. I’m getting anxious about him; the trouble is preying on his mind. Grief, of course, is a natural feeling, but he thinks of nothing except revenge. He’s growing haggard and losing his judgment. I’m almost afraid to think what may happen if he finds anything that looks like a clue. The shock has shaken him terribly.”
“And you?”