"You little liar! You're scared half out of your wits. You're scared of the whole thing—scared of the snow, scared of the cold, scared of the dogs, and scared sick of me. Come, now. Tell me the truth."
It was almost her old bluff, bullying tone, but back of it was a disorder of stretched nerves. Sheila weighed her words and tried to weigh her thoughts.
"I don't think I am afraid, Miss Blake. Why should I be afraid of the dogs, if you aren't? And why should I be afraid of you? You have been good to me. You are a good woman."
At this Miss Blake threw back her head and laughed. She was terribly like one of the dogs howling. There was something wild and wolfish in her broad neck and in the sound she made. And she snapped back into silence with wolfish suddenness.
"If you're not scared, then," she scoffed, "go and chain up the dogs yourself."
For an instant Sheila quite calmly balanced the danger out of doors against the danger within.
"I think," she said—and managed one of her drifting smiles—"I think I am a great deal more afraid of the dogs than I am of you, Miss Blake."
The woman studied her for a minute in silence, then she walked over to her elk-horn throne and sat down on it.
She leaned back in a royal way and spread her dark broad hands across the arms.
"Well," she said coolly, "did you hear what I said? Go out and chain up the dogs!"