He prolonged the pleasure as much as
possible, ate each oyster slowly, descanting on its flavor, and drank more
cups of tea than were at all good for him, for the pleasure of having
Clover pour them out. He made no further offers of help when supper was
ended, but looked on with fascinated eyes as she cleared away and made
things tidy.
At last she finished and came back to the fire. There was a silence. Geoff
was first to break it. "It would seem like a prison to you, I am afraid,"
he said abruptly.
"What would?"
"I was thinking of what you said about the High Valley."
"Oh!"
"You've only seen it in summer, you know. It's quite a different place in
the winter. I don't believe a--person--could live on the year round and be
contented."
"It would depend upon the person, of course."
"If it were a lady,--yourself, for instance,--could it be made anyway
tolerable, do you think? Of course, one might get away now and then--"
"I don't know. It's not easy to tell beforehand how people are going to
feel; but I can't imagine the High Valley ever seeming like a prison,"
replied Clover, vexed to find herself blushing, and yet unable to help it,
Geoff's manner had such an odd intensity in it.
"If I were sure that you could realize what it would be--" he began
impetuously; then quieting himself, "but you don't. How could you? Ranch
life is well enough in summer for a short time by way of a frolic; but in
winter and spring with the Upper Canyon full of snow, and the road down
muddy and slippery, and the storms and short days, and the sense of being
shut in and lonely, it would be a dismal place for a lady.
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