Now, sitting her saddle in silence she surveyed him, striving to understand him—his recent indifference, his deterioration, the present figure he was cutting. And it seemed to her a trifle sad that he had no one to tell him a few wholesome truths.
"Mr. Portlaw," she said, "do you know that you have been exceedingly rude to me?"
"Yes, I—do know it."
"Why?" she asked simply.
"I don't know."
"Didn't you care for our friendship? Didn't it amuse and interest you? How could you have done the things you did—in the way you did?... If you had asked my permission to build a dozen dams I'd have given it. Didn't you know it? But my self-respect protested when you so cynically ignored me—"
"I'm a beast all right," he muttered.
She gazed at him, softened, even faintly amused at his repentant bad-boy attitude.
"Do you want me to forgive you, Mr. Portlaw?"
"Yes—but you oughtn't."