“There is no use talking, Bet,” her brother pursued in an argumentative way, thoughtfully staring at the letter again. “There is no use talking. Joe has it right. We are vegetating here. Most people in towns like this, here in the East, might honestly be classified among the flora rather than the fauna. We’re like rows of cabbages in a kitchen garden.”
“Why, Ford!”
He grinned up at her—a suddenly recalled grimace of his boyhood.
“There speaks the cabbage, Bet! We’re all alike—or most of us are. Here in the old Commonwealth I mean. We’re afraid to step aside from the rutted path, to accept a new idea; really afraid to be and live out each his own individuality.
“Ah! Out in this place Joe writes about——”
He fingered the sheets of the letter again. She watched with the slow fading of all animation from her face—just as though a veil were drawn across it by invisible fingers. Her expression was not so much one of disapproval—her eyes held something entirely different in their depths. Was it fear?
“This Canyon Pass is a real field for a man’s efforts,” burst out Hunt with sudden exasperation. “I tell you, Bet, I feel as though my usefulness here had evaporated. I haven’t a thing in common with these people. Carping criticism and little else confronts me whichever way I turn.”
“You—you are nervous, Ford.”
“Nerves! What right has a man like me with nerves?” he demanded hotly.
“But, Ford—your work here?”