"Oh!" she sighed in admiration, and "Oh!" again, uneasily.
Nothing had been said about it; Jeff was the last person in the world to spoil his triumph by commenting on it; but both of them knew that they had violently changed places; that now it was she who was the limp indoor-dweller, and he who was the ruddy ranger; that as he had admired her at Flathead Lake, so now it was hers to admire, and his to be serenely heroic.
She was not far from the worshiping sub-deb in her sighing, "How did you get the scar?"
"That? Oh, nothing."
"Please tell me."
"Really and truly. Nothing at all. Just a drunken fellow with a knife, playing the fool. I didn't have to touch him—quite sure he could have given me a frightful beating and all that sort of thing. It was the Big Chief who got rid of him."
"He—cut you? With a kniiiiiife? Ohhhhhhh!"
She ran to him, pityingly stroked the scar, looked down at him with filmy eyes. Then she tried to retreat, but he retained her hand, glanced up at her as though he knew her every thought. She felt weak. How could she escape him? "Please!" she begged flutteringly.
If he held her hand another moment, she trembled, she'd be on his lap, in his arms—lost. And he was holding it. He was——
Oh, he was too old for her. Yes, and too paternal. But still—— Life with Jeff would be protected, kindly, honorable.