Again the girl hesitated.  Logically she should refuse to answer.  To do otherwise was to admit that her first answer was an evasion; but something, an influence that always controlled her in Ben’s presence, prevented refusal.  Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was, there was about him a force that dominated her, even as she dominated her parents, and, worst of all—­to her inmost self she admitted the fact—­it fascinated her as well.  With all her strength she rebelled against the knowledge and combated the influence, but in vain.  Instead of replying, she chirruped to her horse.  “It seems to me,” she said, “it’s just as well to begin hunting here as to go further.  I’m going on ahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin.”

With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her bridle-rein, saying carelessly:  “Pardon me, but you forget something you were going to tell me.”

The girl’s brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time there was no hesitation in her reply.

“Very well, since you insist, I’ll answer your question; but don’t be surprised if I offend you.”  A dainty hand tugged at the loosened button of her riding-glove.  “I’m going away, for one reason, because I want to be where things move, and where I don’t always know what is going to happen to-morrow.”  She turned to her companion directly.  “But most of all, I’m going because I want to be among people who have ambitions, who do things, things worth while.  I am tired of just existing, like the animals, from day to day.  I was only a young girl when we were going to school, but now I know why I liked that life so well.  It was because of the intense activity, the constant movement, the competition, the evolution.  I like it!  I want to be a part of it!”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Ben, quietly.

But now the girl was in no hurry to hasten on.  She forgot that her explanation was given under protest.  It had become a confession.

“Up to the last few years I never thought much about the future—­I took it for granted; but since then it has been different.  Unconsciously, I’ve become a woman.  All the little things that belong to women’s lives, too small to tell, begin to appeal to me.  I want to live in a good house and have good clothes and know people.  I want to go to shops and theatres and concerts; all these things belong to me and I intend to have them.”

“I think I understand,” said Ben, slowly.  “Yes, I’m sure I understand,” he repeated.

But the girl did not heed him.  “Last of all, there’s another reason,” she went on.  “I don’t know why I shouldn’t speak it, as well as think it, for it’s the greatest of all.  I’m a young woman.  I won’t remain such long.  I don’t want to be a spinster.  I know I’m not supposed to say these things, but why not?  I want to meet men, men of my own class, my parents’ class, men who know something besides the weight of a steer and the value of a bronco,—­some man I could respect and care for.”  Again she turned directly to her companion.  “Do you wonder I want to change, that I want to leave these prairies, much as I like them?”