Explore "The Gold Trail" by Harold Bindloss on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was rather late that night when Weston and Grenfell sat smoking beside the dying fire. The breeze that came off the lake was colder than usual, and the rest of the party had retired indoors, but one window of the little wooden house stood open, and Miss Kinnaird's voice drifted softly out of it. She was evidently singing a selection from an opera. Grenfell, who lay with his back against one of the hearth-logs, appeared to be listening critically.
"It's pretty and nothing more," he said. "That girl's too diffuse -- she spreads herself. She might have painted if she'd been poor; though that's not a sure thing either."