turesque
moments in Lucy's lot.

"But the winter," she said in a small voice like a pleading child's,
"the winter won't be like that?"

"When the winter comes Zavier'll build a hut. He'll make it out of
small trees, long and thin, bent round with their tops stuck in the
ground, and he'll thatch it with skins, and spread buffalo robes on the
floor of it. There'll be a hole for the smoke to get out, and near the
door'll be his graining block and stretching frame to cure his skins.
On a tree nearby he'll hang his traps, and there'll be a brace of
elkhorns fastened to another tree that they'll use for a rack to hang
the meat and maybe their clothes on. They'll have some coffee and
sugar and salt. That's all they'll need in the way of eatables, for
he'll shoot all the game they want, _les aliments du pays_, as the fur
men call it. It'll be cold, and maybe for months they'll see no one.
But what will it matter? They'll have each other, snug and warm way
off there in the heart of the mountains, with the big peaks looking
down at them. Isn't that a good life for a man and a woman?"

She did not answer, but sat as if contemplating the picture with fixed,
far-seeing gaze. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her.

"Could you do that, little lady?" he said.

"No," she answered, beating down rebellious inner whisperings.

"Wouldn't you follow David that way?"

"David wouldn't ask it. No civilized man would."

"No, David wouldn't," he said quietly.

She glanced quickly at him. Did she hear the note of mockery which she
sensed whenever he alluded to her lover? She was ready at once to take
up arms for David, but the face opposite was devoid of any expression
save an intent, expectant interest. She dropped her eyes to her dress,
perturbed by the closeness of her escape from a foolish exhibition
which would have made her ridiculous. She always felt with Courant
that she would be swept aside as a trivial thing if she lost her
dignity. He watched her and she grew nervous, plucking at her skirt
with an uncertain hand.

"I wonder if you could?" he said after a pause.

"Of course not," she snapped.

"Aren't you enough of a woman?"

"I'm not enough of a fool."

"Aren't all women in love fools--anyway for a while?"

She made no answer, and presently he said, his voice lowered:

"Not enough of a woman to know how to love a man. Doesn't even for a
moment understand it. It's 'poor Susan.'"

Fury seiz