Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his shoulders--all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her, convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided to win him.
But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the serious business of life.

He had never had time--in his later years--to yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth.

He had lived a rough, hard life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth--a life that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.
Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton's feminine blandishments.

He was grimly amused--when he was not disgusted; though he continued to treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her from divining his emotions.
Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them.
There was nothing they could do.

Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating, or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there was no diversion except that of talking.