In his own mind, for a time, he was at a loss to decide.
It was possibly the first time he had ever deeply absorbed himself in
the analysis of a woman. It was outside his business. But, born and bred
of the open country, it was as natural for him to recognize courage as
it was for him to breathe. And the girl's courage was unusual, now that
he had time to think about it. It was this thought of her coolness and
her calm refusal to impose her case upon him with greater warmth that
comforted him after a little. A young and beautiful woman who was
actually facing death would have urged her necessity with more
enthusiasm, it seemed to him. Her threat, when he debated it
intelligently, was merely thrown in, possibly on the spur of the moment,
to give impetus to his decision. She had not meant it. The idea of a
girl like Mary Standish committing suicide was stupendously impossible.
Her quiet and wonderful eyes, her beauty and the exquisite care which
she gave to herself emphasized the absurdity of such a supposition. She
had come to him bravely. There was no doubt of that. She had merely
exaggerated the importance of her visit.
Even after he had turned many things over in his mind to bolster up this
conclusion, he was still not at ease. Against his will he recalled
certain unpleasant things which had happened within his knowledge under
sudden and unexpected stress of emotion.
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