“Pretty poor sort of place—this,” he said. “It’s not good enough for you, my Wana.”
The woman had seated herself on a low stool near the table. It was one of her few remaining savage instincts she would not give up. It was not fitting that she should eat with him.
“How would you like a house, a big house, like—White River Farm?” he went on, as though he were thinking aloud. “And hundreds, thousands, of steers and cows? And buggies to ride in? And farm machinery? And—and plenty of fine clothes to wear, like—like Rosebud?”
The woman shook her head and indicated her humble belongings. 61
“This—very good. Very much good. See, you are here. I want you.”
The man flushed and laughed a little awkwardly. But he was well pleased.
“Oh, we’re happy enough. You and I, my Wana. But—we’ll see.”
Wanaha made no comment; and when his meat was finished she set a dish of buckwheat cakes and syrup before him.
He devoured them hungrily, and the woman’s eyes grew soft with delight at his evident pleasure.
At last his thoughtfulness passed, and he put an abrupt question.