When they spelled in mid-morning Imbrie and the woman became involved in a discussion of which Stonor understood almost every word. They had finished eating, and all four were sitting in a row on a beach with great stones sticking up through the sand. Clare was at one end, Stonor at the other. They were giving Stonor a rest as they might have rested a horse before putting him in harness again.
The woman said impatiently: “How long are you going to keep up this foolishness?”
“What foolishness?” Imbrie said sullenly.
“Letting this man live. He’s your enemy and mine. He’s not going to forget that I shot at him twice. He’s got some scheme in his head right now. He’s much too willing to work.”
“That’s just women’s talk. I know what I’m doing. I’ve got him just right because he’s scared of losing the girl.”
“All right. Many times you ask me what to do. Sometimes you don’t do what I say, and then you’re sorry afterwards. I tell you this is foolishness. You want the white-face girl and you let the man live to please her! What sense is there in that? She won’t take you as long as he lives.”
“If I kill him she’ll kill herself.”
“Wah! That’s just a threat. She’ll hold it over you as long as he lives. When he’s dead she’ll have to make the best of it. You’ll have to kill him in the end. Why not do it now?”
“I know what I’m doing,” repeated Imbrie stubbornly. “I’m the master now. Women turn naturally to the master. In a few days I’ll put this white man so low she’ll despise him.”
The woman laughed. “You don’t know much about women. The worse you treat him the crazier she’ll be about him. And if she gets a knife, look out!”