If Peggy expected her patient to resent this question she must have been surprised, for Alice merely smiled as if at the impertinence of a child.
Mrs. Adams replied: “I can tell you that she is—and a very fortunate girl her friends think her.”
He turned to her with unmoved face. “You mean he’s got money, I reckon.”
“Money and brains and good looks and a fine position.”
“That’s about the whole works, ain’t it—leastwise he will have it all when he gets you. A man like that doesn’t deserve what he’s got. He’s a chump. Do you suppose I’d go off and leave you alone in a hole like this with a smashed leg? I’d never bring you into such a country, in the first place. And I certainly wouldn’t leave you just to study a shack of ice on the mountainside.”
“I urged him to go, and, besides, Peggy is mistaken; we’re not engaged.”
“But he left you! That’s what sticks in my crop. He can’t be just right in his head. If I had any chance of owning you I’d never let you out of my sight. I wouldn’t take a chance. I don’t understand these city fellows. I reckon their blood is thinned with ice-water. If I had you I’d be scared every minute for fear of losing you. I’d be as dangerous to touch as a silver-tip. If I had any place to take you I’d steal you right now.”
This was more than banter. Even Mrs. Adams perceived the passion quivering beneath his easy, low-toned speech. He was in truth playing with the conception of seizing this half-smiling, half-musing girl whose helpless body was at once a lure and an inspiration. It was perfectly evident that he was profoundly stirred.
And so was Alice. “What,” she dared ask herself, “will become of this?”
IV