“He’s not here, then?” No banter in the voice now.
“Never fear”––quickly––“he’ll return.”
A moment they looked into each other’s eyes; challengingly, as they had looked unnumbered times before.
“As you suggest, Eleanor,” said the man, 157 slowly, “this farce has gone far enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you.”
Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soon the man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at his cigar before throwing it away.
Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warm spring sunshine creeping in at the open door separating them. The woman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higher than usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together––that was all. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that he seemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultry came from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie on the steps sounded plainly through the room.
A minute passed. Neither spoke. Then, with a shade of annoyance, the man shifted in his chair.
“I thought, perhaps, you’d have something you wished to say. If not, however––” He paused meaningly. 158
“You said a moment ago, you wished to speak to me.”
“As usual, you make everything as difficult as possible.” The shade of annoyance became positive. “Such being the case, we may as well come to the point. How soon do you contemplate bringing this––this incident to a close?”