“I call it very inconsiderate of the little scamp,” observed Geoff.  “He doesn’t know but that he’s leaving you to spend the evening quite alone.”

“Oh, boys don’t think of things like that.”

“Boys ought to, then.  However, I can stand his absence, if you can!”

It was a very merry little meal to which they presently sat down, full of the charm which the unexpected brings with it.  Clover had grown to regard Geoff as one of her very best friends, and was perfectly at her ease with him, while to him, poor lonely fellow, such a glimpse of cosey home-life was like a peep at Paradise.  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.  Nobody has a right to expect a woman to undergo such a life.”

Clover absorbed herself in her sewing, she did not speak; but still that deep uncomfortable blush burned on her cheeks.

“What do you think?” persisted Geoff.  “Wouldn’t it be inexcusable selfishness in a man to ask such a thing?”

“I think;” said Clover, shyly and softly, “that a man has a right to ask for whatever he wants, and—­” she paused.

“And—­what?” urged Geoff, bending forward.

“Well, a woman has always the right to say no, if she doesn’t want to say yes.”