"Bruce," she panted.
He stopped. His face was cold, impassive.
"Well?"
"I must because—my—my father died with them. His spirit is in me." Both her hands were on his shoulders now. She was very much in earnest, and it hurt her that he should in any way misconstrue her motives. "There are times," she continued, "when I feel I hate the Hudson's Bay Company and all its servants. But at those times I always have to amend my hatred. Not all its servants! Don't you understand?"
She let him fathom her eyes, and he understood. There he caught a gleam of something he had never surprised before. The joy of the discovery ran through him like exultant fire.
He prisoned both the wrists at his shoulders. "Desirée, you care! You care a little!"
"Yes," she breathed, and still unwillingly, "I care—a little!"
With the partial confession she wrenched free and rushed blindly indoors.