They had begun by disliking him--from Lil Sarnia
down--and had ended by being his. This girl would never be his in the way
that the others had been, but--who could tell?--perhaps he would think
enough of her to marry her? Anyway, it was worth while making such a
beauty care for him. The other kind of women were easy enough to get, and
it would be a piquant thing to have one irreproachable affaire. He had
never had one; he was not sure that any girl or woman he had ever known
had ever loved him, and he was certain that he had never loved any girl
or woman. To be in love would be a new and piquant experience for him. He
did not know love, but he knew what passion was. He had ever been the
hunter. This trail might be dangerous, too, but he would take his
chances. He had seen her dislike of him whenever they had met in the
past, and he had never tried to soften her attitude towards him. He had
certainly whistled, but she had not come. Well, he would whistle again--a
different tune.
"You speak French much?" he asked almost eagerly, the insolence gone from
his tone. "Why didn't I know that?"
"I speak French in Manitou," she replied, "but nearly all the French
speak English there, and so I speak more English than French."
"Yes, that's it," he rejoined almost angrily again.
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