“Perhaps,” she answered slowly, “yes, perhaps. I guess that’s why you seem so diff’rent to me. Jim Last used to say that was why th’ Valley was so soft-like an’ lovely, contrasted by th’ Rockface.”
“Do I seem different to you?” asked Kenset quickly. “How?”
“Yes. I don’t know how. You seem soft, like a woman––some women––an’ I’m afraid–––”
She stopped suddenly, abruptly halted in her naïve speech, as if she had come face to face with something she had not meant to meet.
“Afraid?” probed the man gravely, “go on. You are afraid––of what?”
“No,” said Tharon, “I won’t say it”
“Please do. I want to know.”
“Then,” answered the girl straightly, after the honest and downright fashion of all her dealings, “I’m afraid you are––are too soft. You don’t pack a gun. I’m afraid you wouldn’t use it if you did.”
There was a certain finality about the short speech, as if she had put the last word of condemnation to his estate.