“Don’t go, Ban.”
“I’ve got to. I’ve got to get away from here.”
“And your position with the railroad?”
“I’ve resigned. It’s all arranged.” He pointed to the pile of letters, his night’s work.
“What are you going to do?”
“How do I know! I beg your pardon, Miss Camilla. Write, I suppose.”
“Write here.”
“There’s nothing to write about.”
The exile, who had spent her years weaving exquisite music from the rhythm of desert winds and the overtones of the forest silence, looked about her, over the long, yellow-gray stretches pricked out with hints of brightness, to the peaceful refuge of the pines, and again to the naked and impudent meanness of the town. Across to her ears, borne on the air heavy with rain still unshed, came the rollicking, ragging jangle of the piano at the Sick Coyote.
“Aren’t there people to write about there?” she said. “Tragedies and comedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a duller place.”