"Not after that," she said, presenting him a fresh-curved cheek tinted with rose, and snowy cold. Then, laughing, she swung the impatient horses to the left; a jingling shower of golden bell-notes followed; and they were off through the starlight, tearing northward across the snow.
"Duane!" she said, pulling the young horses down into a swift, swinging trot, "what do you think! Geraldine doesn't know you're coming!"
"Why not?" he asked, surprised. "I telegraphed."
"Yes, but she's been on the mountain with old Miller for three days. Three of your letters are waiting for her; and then came your telegram, and of course Scott and I thought we ought to open it."
"Of course. But what on earth sent Geraldine up the Golden Dome in the dead of winter?"
Kathleen shook her pretty head:
"She's turned into the most uncontrollable sporting proposition you ever heard of! She's up there at Lynx Peak camp, with her rifle, and old Miller. They're after that big boar—the biggest, horridest thing in the whole forest. I saw him once. He's disgusting. Scott objected, and so did I, but, somehow, I'm becoming reconciled to these break-neck enterprises she goes in for so hard—so terribly hard, Duane! and all I do is to fuss a little and make a few tearful objections, and she laughs and does what she pleases."
He said: "It is better, is it not, to let her?"
"Yes," returned Kathleen quietly, "it is better. That is why I say very little."
There was a moment's silence, but the constraint did not last.