"Why, you're worse than he! The idea of suggesting such a thing!"
"Don't preach! I've had nothing to do lately but think of her; she's always in my mind. The loneliness up here has made me feel more than ever that I can't exist without her. The river whispers her name; her face looks at me from the campfire; the wind brings me her messages—"
"Fiddlesticks! She saves her messages for him. When a man reaches the poetical stage he's positively sickening. You'll be writing verses next."
"I've written 'em," Dan confessed, sheepishly; "oceans of mush."
"Fancy! Thank Heaven one of us is sane."
"Our dispositions were mixed when we were born, Eliza. You're unsentimental and hard-headed: I'm romantic. You'll never know what love means."
"If you are a sample, I hope not." Eliza's nose assumed an even higher tilt than usual.
"Well, if I knew I had no chance with Natalie I'd let Gordon's men put an end to me—that's how serious it is. But I have a chance—I know I have."
"Bosh! You've lived in railroad camps too long. I know a dozen girls prettier than she." Eying him with more concern, she asked, seriously, "You wouldn't really take advantage of a service to Murray O'Neil to—to tell him the nature of your insanity?"
"I might not actually tell him, but I'd manage it so he'd find out."