“No,” replied Miss Kinnaird reflectively, “it doesn’t, that is, when you do not paint for your living—which, of course, alters everything.”
Then her eyes twinkled as she favored her companion with a passable imitation of her father’s didactic tone and manner.
“As the major says, social distinctions are necessary safeguards, and cannot lightly be disregarded. If they were not, they could not have existed as long as they have.”
She laughed.
“In the case of a man who has inherited his station and his possessions,” she added, “it is a very natural and comfortable creed.”
“Ah,” said Ida, “my father worked in a sawmill.”
She spoke quietly, but there was something in her voice that warned her companion that there were subjects upon which they might have a clash of opinion. In the east there is pride of possession; but the pride of achievement, which is, perhaps, more logical, is more common in the west.
It was an hour later when Weston laid breakfast before them; and Ida, who regarded him unobtrusively with careful attention, decided that Arabella Kinnaird was right. The packer, with his lean, symmetrical litheness, his pleasant English face, his clear eyes, and his clean, bronzed skin, was certainly well-favored physically, and she began to wonder whether her companion could not have gone further in her comments; until she remembered again that the commencement of a good many troubles is probably woman’s curiosity.
The canoes were launched after breakfast, and it was afternoon when they pitched camp beside a still, blue lake. Then Major Kinnaird strolled away with a trout-rod to a neighboring rapid, and Mrs. Kinnaird went to sleep in a hammock. Her daughter got out her sketch-book, and sitting down among the boulders bade Ida summon Weston. He came, and stood looking at them inquiringly, picturesque in his wide hat and his fringed deerskin jacket. Miss Kinnaird pursed up her face.
“I want to make a sketch of you. You have rather a good head,” she said.