And yet, though he seemed to affect entire candor with me, I was, strangely enough, puzzled by some reserve that still lurked beneath his manner.

I hoped this meant that he was slowly finding a way too good to be told as yet, even to his best friend.
"Something must be done, Cal," he said, on one occasion, "but you see, here's the trouble--she's a woman and I'm a man." "That's a famous old trouble," I remarked.
"And she's _got_ to live, though Wes' Keyts says he isn't so sure of that--he says I'm lucky enough to have an earthquake made up especially for this case--and if she lives, she must have ways and means.

And then I have my own troubles.

Say, I never knew I was so careless about my language until she came along.

She says only an iron will can correct it.