"You've found yourself," Rod said a little wistfully. "You've got the vision, and the power to embody your vision so that it stands out clear. I couldn't get it. I tried; I wanted to capture the spaciousness, the drama, the unquenchable spirit of the pioneers. And I couldn't. What I wanted to do seems mere inconsequential romancing beside the vivid reality you've achieved. How did you do it, wonder-woman? How do you know with such certainty what men think and feel, and how they can be beasts and heroes, groping blindly toward certain ends? Where did you get the astonishing grasp of those obscure motives which so often actuate people? You ought to write the history of the Norquay family, Mary. There's a theme for a novel. First the pioneer adventurer, courageous, determined, resourceful, infinitely patient about his foundation laying, seeing clearly what he was about. Then his son following in his father's footsteps. The grandson expanding upon the solidly laid groundwork, elaborating the original plan, acquiring land and timber, increasing the tradition of permanence. Then a generation that stands pat on its hereditary past, accepting wealth and culture as a birthright, things irrevocably bestowed upon a superior class, as a condition fixed and final for all time. Last of all a generation where the eldest son and heir is only a passionate, superficially glossed animal, who expends his fierce energy on women and financial undertakings, proving eminently successful with both. The second son, the well-balanced, sound-minded one, killed in the war. The youngest, a dreamy, sensitive youth, coming back from the war with a cracked heart and most of his romantic illusions about great men, great nations, and great idealistic undertakings knocked into a cocked hat--with no task ahead of him worth an effort, with his keenest consciousness that of a world where all stability has gone by the board; a tired, disillusioned man who wants only to sit and think, and to be grateful that if everything else seems pinchbeck there's still a woman who is eighteen-carat gold to him. I don't quite see how you would make a pattern out of such a snarl--but--" He didn't finish the sentence. Mary's arms drew him down to her with a fierce, protecting pressure. She held him, whispering tensely: "What have they done to you? I can't bear to hear you talk like that. It isn't true. Life hasn't gone sour. We mustn't let it. We can make it good--we must. One daren't falter. One must not brood. We're over the top of a long hill that has tried us both. Well, then--'Courage, the devil is dead!' Eh, Roderick Dhu? Love's _something_ to hold fast by, isn't it?" CHAPTER XX