"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high
cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what he
was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, eh?
Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the wood
like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his hat to
death. That's different altogether from us."

He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look.

"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she."

"She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide it
if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made for
this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! made for--"

He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift
current.

Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?"

Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the
hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded
first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage
belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came from Brydon,
and he clinched the other's shoulder. Pierre glanced at the hand, then at
Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away."

The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard.