“Accounts differ. From the known features of the map I should say about two hundred miles. They say the river’s as crooked as a ram’s horn.”
There was another silence. She was busy with her own thoughts, and Stonor was content not to talk if he might look at her.
With her next speech she seemed to strike off at a tangent. She spoke with a lightness that appeared to conceal a hint of pain. “They say the mounted police are the guides, philosophers and friends of the people up North. They say you have to do everything, from feeding babies to reading the burial service.”
“I’m afraid there’s a good bit of romancing about the police,” said Stonor modestly.
“But they do make good friends, don’t they?” she insisted.
“I hope so.”
She gave him the full of her deep, starry eyes. It was not an intoxicating glance, but one that moved him to the depths. “Will you be my friend?” she asked simply.
Poor Stonor! With too great a need for speech, speech itself was foundered. No words ever coined seemed strong enough to carry the weight of his desire to assure her. He could only look at her, imploring her to believe in him. In the end only two little words came; to him wretchedly inadequate; but it is doubtful if they could have been bettered.
“Try me!”
His look satisfied her. She lowered her eyes. The height of emotion was too great to be maintained. She cast round in her mind for something to let them down. “How far to the north the sunset glow is now.”