"I do not love you," she said.
"This is white people's talk," said Philippe. "What is love? You marry me. You keep my lodge."
"I love the white man," Nahnya said firmly.
He sprang up with a threatening gesture. In his simplicity he thought she was baiting him. His face was dark with wounded self-love.
Nahnya's eyes held his unflinchingly. "If you strike me I not stop loving him," she said.
The youth was no match for her. His eyes could not support the strong light behind hers. He turned away muttering.
"Do you want to marry me?" Nahnya asked after a while.
He turned on her with the violent upbraiding of a man's jealousy, which is much the same, Cree or English. Nahnya saw that he had misunderstood what she meant by "love." Interrupting him, she made the point clear.
"No man has had me!" she proudly concluded.
He scowled, regarding her doubtfully. The boastful male in him was loath to confess it, but he was like wax in her hands.