“No, that’s true. But if you were married it wouldn’t make any difference to Morrison.”
Carley could not detect bitterness or jealousy in his voice. She would not have been averse to hearing either. She gathered from his remark, however, that he was going to be harder than ever to understand. What had she said or done to make him retreat within himself, aloof, impersonal, unfamiliar? He did not impress her as loverlike. What irony of fate was this that held her there yearning for his kisses and caresses as never before, while he watched the fire, and talked as to a mere acquaintance, and seemed sad and far away? Or did she merely imagine that? Only one thing could she be sure of at that moment, and it was that pride would never be her ally.
“Glenn, look here,” she said, sliding her chair close to his and holding out her left hand, slim and white, with its glittering diamond on the third finger.
He took her hand in his and pressed it, and smiled at her. “Yes, Carley, it’s a beautiful, soft little hand. But I think I’d like it better if it were strong and brown, and coarse on the inside—from useful work.”
“Like Flo Hutter’s?” queried Carley.
“Yes.”
Carley looked proudly into his eyes. “People are born in different stations. I respect your little Western friend, Glenn, but could I wash and sweep, milk cows and chop wood, and all that sort of thing?”
“I suppose you couldn’t,” he admitted, with a blunt little laugh.
“Would you want me to?” she asked.
“Well, that’s hard to say,” he replied, knitting his brows. “I hardly know. I think it depends on you.... But if you did do such work wouldn’t you be happier?”