"Well," she said lightly, "when I came in, you really didn't look as cheerful as one might have expected. Are you sorry you are going away?"
"It's a good deal harder than I thought. The prairie seems to have got hold of me; I have good friends here."
"Haven't you plenty in England?"
"Acquaintances; only a few friends. I can't help regretting those I must leave behind. In fact"—he spoke impulsively, expressing a thought that had haunted him—"it would be a relief if I knew I should come back again."
"After all, this is a hard country and we're a rather primitive people."
"You're reliable! Staunch friends, determined enemies; and even among the latter I found a kind of sporting feeling which made it a little easier for one to forget one's injuries." He glanced at the prairie which stretched away, white and silent, in the clear evening light. "It's irrational in a way, but I'd be glad to feel I was going to work as usual to-morrow."
"I suppose you could do so, if you really wanted to," Flora suggested.
George turned and looked fixedly at her, while a mad idea crept into his mind. She was very alluring; he thought he knew her nature, which was altogether wholesome, and it flashed upon him that many of the excellent qualities she possessed were lacking in Sylvia. Then he loyally drove out the temptation, wondering that it had assailed him, though he was still clearly conscious of his companion's attractiveness.
"No," he said in a somewhat strained voice; "I hardly think that's possible. I must go back."
Flora smiled, though it was difficult. She half believed she could shake the man's devotion to her rival, but she was too proud to try. If he came to her, he must come willingly, and not because she had exerted her utmost power to draw him.