“I haven't got to the point where I like crawling on my hands and knees,” he flared back at her.
“Even for your sake, I decline to simulate friendship or tolerance for your uncle; hence I must be content to let matters stand as they are between us.”
She laughed lightly. “So you are still uncompromisingly belligerent—still after Uncle Seth's scalp?”
“Yes; and I think I'm going to get it. At any rate, he isn't going to get mine.”
“Don't you think you're rather unjust to make me suffer for the sins of my relative, Bryce?” she demanded.
She had called him by his first name. He thrilled. “I'm lost in a quagmire of debts—I'm helpless now,” he murmured. “I'm not fighting for myself alone, but for a thousand dependents—for a principle—for an ancient sentiment that was my father's and is now mine. You do not understand.”
“I understand more than you give me credit for, and some day you'll realize it. I understand just enough to make me feel sorry for you. I understand what even my uncle doesn't suspect at present, and that is that you're the directing genius of the Northern California Oregon Railroad and hiding behind your friend Ogilvy. Now, listen to me, Bryce Cardigan: You're never going to build that road. Do you understand?”
The suddenness of her attack amazed him to such an extent that he did not take the trouble to contradict her. Instead he blurted out, angrily and defiantly: “I'll build that road if it costs me my life—if it costs me you. Understand! I'm in this fight to win.”
“You will not build that road,” she reiterated.
“Why?”