“My argument is purely in the abstract, Mr. Siward. I am asking you whether the death men deal is more justifiable than a woman's gift of death?”
“Oh, well, life-taking, the giving of life—there can be only one answer to the mystery; and I don't know it,” he replied smiling.
“I do.”
“Tell me then,” he said, still amused.
They had passed swale after swale of silver birches waist deep in perfumed fern and brake; the big timber lay before them. She moved forward, light gun swung easily across her leather-padded shoulder; and on the wood's sunny edge she seated herself, straight young back against a giant pine, gun balanced across her flattened knees.
“You are feeling the pace a little,” he said, coming up and standing in front of her.
“The pace? No, Mr. Siward.”
“Are you a trifle—bored?” She considered him in silence, then leaned back luxuriously, rounded arms raised, wrists crossed to pillow her head.
“This is charmingly new to me,” she said simply.
“What? Not the open?”