Weston smiled, though there was something curious in his manner. It seemed to suggest that he was trying to face an unpleasant fact.
“Well,” he said, “I told you that would probably be the case. In one way it’s unfortunate, because I suppose you will have to go. You belong to civilization, and it will certainly claim you.”
“And don’t you?”
Weston made a little whimsical gesture.
“In the meanwhile, I don’t quite know where I belong. It’s perplexing.”
Ida noticed the “in the meanwhile.” It had, she fancied, a certain significance, and hinted that by and by he expected to be more sure of his station.
“You don’t wish to go back?” she asked.
“No,” said Weston decisively. “Anyway, not to the packed boarding-house and the flour-mill. Even in winter, when these rivers are frozen hard and the pines stand white and motionless under the Arctic frost, this is a good deal nicer.”
“You’re getting away from the point,” said Ida, laughing. “I meant to England.”
Weston leaned forward a little, looking at her with a curious expression in his eyes.