I suppose it’s being alone with the prairie all these months, things which used to seem rather funny and clever—well, I see them quite differently now.
Hornby.
[Coolly.] I’m afraid you don’t altogether approve of me.
Norah.
[Not disagreeably.] You haven’t got pluck.
Hornby.
I don’t know about that. I expect I have as much as anyone else, only I don’t make a fuss about it.
Norah.
Oh, pluck to stand up and let yourself be shot at—I daresay. But pluck to do the same monotonous thing day after day, plain, honest, hard work—you haven’t got that. You’re a failure, and the worst of it is, you’re not ashamed of it. It fills you with self-satisfaction.
Hornby.