Ida turned toward him suddenly.
“Don’t you mean more than that?”
“Well,” admitted Weston slowly, “I think I did. Perhaps it was a liberty.”
“It was,” said Ida, and, though she laughed, there was a little flash in her eyes. “Major Kinnaird and his wife are English, and it is quite possible that they would not be pleased to hear that I had come out to talk with you on the platform of a car. Still, in Canada we have our own notions as to what is fitting, and that I consider it perfectly natural that I should do so is quite sufficient for me. I do not defer to anybody’s opinion as to how I should treat my friends. Now, unless you have any more convincing excuses, you may tell me about the search for the mine.”
Weston did so, and, for the mere pleasure of having her near him, he made rather a long tale of it. She stood where the vestibule of the car in front partly sheltered her from the rush of the cold night wind, swaying lightly to the jolting of the platform as the great train sped on among the pines. Still, her light dress which gleamed white in the moonlight fluttered about her and now and then flowed against her companion. The simple tale of stress and effort borne and made was one that went well with the snorting of the big locomotives toiling up the climbing track and the rhythmic roar of wheels flung back by primeval forest or towering wall of rock. The girl had imagination enough to realize it.
“Oh,” she said, “one likes to hear of such things.”
Then she noticed the gauntness of his bronzed face and how lean he was.
“Still,” she added, “it has left its mark on you. You failed to find the mine—it wasn’t your fault—what are you going to do now?”
“Some day,” said Weston, “I shall go back and search again.”
He had made the resolution only that moment, but she saw the sudden glint in his eyes.