"Well?" he said.
"Yes. Of course she is up." Grudgingly Matilda made answer.
Somehow she resented the clean-limbed health of these men who made
their living in the wilderness. There was something almost
aggressive about it. Abruptly she braced herself to give utterance
to her thoughts. "Why can't you leave her here a little longer?
She doesn't want to go back."
"I think she must tell me that herself," Burke said.
He betrayed no discomfiture. She had never seen him discomfited.
That was part of her grievance against him.
"She won't do that," she said curtly. "She has old-fashioned ideas
about duty. But it doesn't make her like it any the better."
"It wouldn't," said Burke. A gleam that was in no way connected
with his smile shone for a moment in his steady eyes, but it passed
immediately. He continued to contemplate the faded woman before
him very gravely, without animosity. "You have got rather fond of
Sylvia, haven't you?" he said.
Matilda made an odd gesture that had in it something of vehemence.
"I am very sorry for her," she said bluntly.
"Yes?" said Burke.
"Yes." She repeated the word uncompromisingly, and closed her lips.
"You're not going to tell me why?" he suggested.
Her pale eyes grew suddenly hard and intensely bright. "Yes. I
should like to tell you," she said.
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