"She ... his wife," he went on, steadying his voice. "It's hard on her, Nora."
"I know it is, poor thing," she replied, almost mechanically. "I talk to her every time I can, but she, she ain't my kind, Bruce. You know that. The' ain't much I can say to her. Besides, I dasn't let on that I know who she is or that you've got her husband."
Her eyes still held on his inquiringly.
"You might get her outdoors," he ventured. "Keepin' in that room day an' night, worryin' as she does, is worse 'n jail. You ... You ride a lot. Why don't you get her some ridin' clothes an' take her along? I'll tell Nate to give you an extra horse. You see...."
The girl did see. She saw his anxiety for the woman upstairs. She knew the truth then, and the thing which she had feared through those days rang in her head like a sullen tocsin. She had felt an uneasiness come into her heart with the arrival of this eastern woman, this product of another civilization with her sweetness, her charm for both her own sex and for men. And that uneasiness had grown to apprehension, had mounted as she watched the change in Bayard under Ann's influence until now, when she realized that the thing which she had hoped against for months, which she had felt impending for days, had become reality; and that she, Bayard, Ned Lytton, Ann, were fast in the meshes of circumstances that bound and shut down upon them like a net, forecasting tragedy and the destruction of hopes. Nora feared, she feared with that groundless, intuitive fear peculiar to her kind; almost an animal instinct, and she felt her heart leaping, her head becoming giddy as that warning note struck and reverberated through her consciousness. Her gaze left the man's face slowly, her shoulders slackened and almost impatiently she turned back to her work that he might not see the foreboding about her.
"You see, th' open air would help her, an' bein' with you, another woman, even if you an' she don't talk th' same language, would help too," he ended.
"I see," Nora answered after a moment, as she tilted a chair to one leg and stooped low to rub the dust from its spindles. "I understand, Bruce. I'll take her to ride ... every day, if you think it's best."
Something about her made Bayard pause, and the moment of silence which followed was an uneasy one for him. The girl kept on with her task, eyes averted, and he did not notice that she next commenced working on a chair that she had already dusted.
"That's a good girl, Nora," he said. "That'll help her."
He left then and, when the ring of his spurs had been lost in the lazy afternoon, the girl sat suddenly in the chair on which she had busied herself and pressed the dustcloth hard against her eyes. She drew a long, sharp breath. Then, she stood erect and muttered,