She brought a fist down on her chair arm and shifted her position slightly. In the pause, Rowe stirred.
"And every year the interest keeps piling up, and the risks—You've really considered the risks, Miss Foraker, or do you just talk about them?"
"Risks!" she cried in contempt. "I've lived with risks since I can remember, Mr. Rowe. Lived with risks from fire to moles—and other underground workers! Because of those risks I must provide the forest with a margin of safety, as in any other business. My margin of safety is in the quality growth and increasing markets. If I cut too soon, I cancel my insurance of a future; I can't cut now and keep my capital intact. I will not do either because there is a chance for help left. Mr. Taylor is that chance. He could carry my pine until it is self-supporting; that will be only a few years, and then—forever after—"
She stopped speaking, for her voice had tightened.
Rowe spoke again: "Foraker's Folly! It seems to have been well named! Continuous crops from the same soil without putting anything back? That's considered bad business in agriculture. Anyhow, pine won't follow pine. Or will it, according to your unproven theories?"
The girl looked at him again, forcing herself to remain patient.
"I am reasonably confident it will, Mr. Rowe, and quite sure that the soil will hold up. You see, ninety-seven per cent of pine cellulose comes from the air instead of the soil. If you won't take my word, I can show you," gesturing toward the shelves of books. "Properly tended forest soil gets better for—well, for at least a good many years. Do you know of the Sihlwald at Zurick, for
