She was not in love with Ingolby. How could she be in love with this man
she had seen but a few times--this Gorgio. Why was it that even as they
talked together now, she felt the real, true distance between them--of
race, of origin, of history, of life, of circumstance? The hut in the
wood where Gabriel Druse had carried Jethro Fawe was not three hundred
yards away.
She sighed, stirred, and a wild look came in her eyes--a look of
rebellion or of protest. Presently she recovered herself. She was a
creature of sudden moods.
"What is it you want to do with Manitou and Lebanon?" she asked after a
pause in which the thoughts of both had travelled far.
"You really wish to know--you don't know?" he asked with sudden
intensity.
She regarded him frankly, smiled, then she laughed outright, showing her
teeth very white and regular and handsome. The boyish eagerness of his
look, the whimsical twist of his mouth, which always showed when he was
keenly roused--as though everything that really meant anything was part
of a comet-like comedy--had caused her merriment. All the hidden things
in his face seemed to open out into a swift shrewdness and dry candour
when he was in his mood of "laying all the cards upon the table."
"I don't know," she answered quietly.
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