"Is there a chance of that, Shiela?"
She did not answer, but the tragedy in her slowly lifted eyes appalled him. Then a rushing confusion of happiness and pain almost stupefied him.
"You must not be afraid," he managed to say while the pulse hammered in his throat, and the tumult of his senses deadened his voice to a whisper.
"I am afraid."
They were near the wagon now; both dismounted under the pines while Bulow came forward to picket their horses. On their way together among the trees she looked up at him almost piteously: "You must go if you talk to me again like this. I could not endure very much of it."
"I don't know what I am going to do," he said in the same curiously deadened voice. "You must tell me more."
"I cannot. I am—uncertain of myself. I can't think clearly when we—when you speak to me—this way. Couldn't you go North before I—before my unhappiness becomes too real—too hard?—couldn't you go before it is too late—and leave me my peace of mind, my common sense!"
He looked around at her. "Yes," he said, "I will go if there is no decent chance for us; and if it is not too late."
"I have my common senses still left. It is not too late."
There was a silence. "I will go," he said very quietly.