"How funny," whispered Geraldine to Duane. "I had no idea that Delancy was so fond of her. Had you?" He started slightly. "I? Oh, no," he said hastily--too hastily. He was a very poor actor. Gravely, head bent, she walked forward beside him after Grandcourt had announced that he and Rosalie had had enough and that they wished Kemp to take them and their game to the sleigh. Once, looking back, she saw the procession moving in the opposite direction through the woods, Kemp leading, rope over his shoulder, dragging the dead boar across the snow; Grandcourt, both rifles slung across his back, big arm supporting Rosalie, who walked as though very tired, her bright head drooping, her arm resting on his shoulder. Geraldine looked up at Duane thoughtfully, and he supposed that she was about to speak, but her gaze became remote; she shifted her rifle, and walked on. Before they came to the wild, shaggy country below Cloudy Mountain she said: "I've been thinking it over, Duane. I can see in it nothing that can concern anybody except themselves. Can you?" "Not a thing, dear.... I'm sorry I suggested his coming. I knew about this, but I clean forgot it when I asked you to invite him." "I remember, now, your consternation when you realised it," she said, smiling. "After all, Duane, if it is bound to happen, I don't mind it happening here.... Poor, lonely little Rosalie!... I'm depraved enough to be glad for her--if it is really to be so." "I'm glad, too.... Only she ought to begin her action, I think. It's more prudent and better taste." "You said once that you had a contempt for divorce." "I never entertain the same opinion of anything two days in succession," he said, smiling. "When there is any one moral law that can justly cover every case which it is framed to govern, I'll be glad to remain more constant in my beliefs." "Then you _do_ believe in divorce?" "To-day I happen to." "Duane, is that your attitude toward everything?" "Everything except you," he said cheerfully. "That is literally true. Even in my painting and in my liking for the work of others, I veer about like a weather-vane, never holding very long to one point of view." "You're very frank about it." "Why not?" "Isn't it a--a weakness?" "I don't think so," he said so simply that she tucked her arm under his with a soft, confidential laugh. "You goose; do you suppose I think there is a weak fibre in you? I've always adored the strength in you--even when it was rough enough to bruise me. Listen, dear; there's only one thing you might possibly weaken on. Promise you won't." "I promise." "Then," she said triumphantly, "you'll take first shot at the big boar! Are you angry because I made you promise? If you only knew, dear, how happy I have been, saving the best I had to offer, in this forest, for you! You will make me happy, won't you?" "Of course I will, you little trump!" he said, encircling her waist, forgetful of old Miller, plodding along behind them.