She stopped and closed her eyes.
"Breakin' all the rules, like any tenderfoot would be expected to do."
She glanced at him, wistful, to see whether or not she had smoothed it over; his face was a blank.
"You won't go?"
"Nope."
He insisted cruelly: "Why?"
"Because—because—well, can I leave a baby alone near a fire? Not me!"
Her voice changed. The light and the life was gone from it, but not all the music. It was low, a little hoarse.
"I guess we can stay here tonight without no danger. And in the morning—well, the morning can take care of itself. I'm going to turn in."
He rose obediently and stood at the door, facing the night. From behind came the rustle of clothes, and the sense of her followed and surrounded and stood at his shoulder calling to him to turn. He had won, but he began to wonder if it had not been a Pyrrhic victory.