"You, a farmer!" laughed Isabelle. "And what about Congress, and the real anarchists?"
"Oh, you cannot understand! You do not belong to the fields as I do." He pointed ironically to her handsome riding skirt. "You are of the cities, of people. You will flit from this Indiana landscape one day, from provincial Torso, and spread your gay wings among the houses of men. While I—" He made a gesture of despair,—half comic, half serious,—and his dark face became gloomy.
Isabelle was amused at what she called his "heroics," but she felt interested to know what he was; and it flattered her that he should see her "spreading gay wings among the houses of men." These days she liked to think of herself that way.
"You will be in Washington, while we are still in Torso!" she answered.
"Maybe," he mused. "Well, we play the game—play the game—until it is played out!"
'He is not happy with his wife,' Isabelle concluded sagely; 'she doesn't understand him, and that's why she has that half-scared look.'
"I believe you really want to play the game as much as anybody," she ventured with a little thrill of surprise to find herself talking so personally with a man other than her husband.
"You think so?" he demanded, and his face grew wistful. "There is nothing in the game compared with the peace that one might have—"
Lane was calling to her, but she lingered to say:—
"How?"