her, he tried to eat, and failing, recalled with shame how much he had disliked this good woman. He had been the snob, not these others. . . .
Late that afternoon he was lying in bed in his dark, little chamber, cursing his fate, groaning over the mess he had made of his life, hating Lasca more than ever, swearing to shoot Pettijohn, when there came a knock at his door. He did not immediately reply, but when the knock was repeated he called out, who is it?
The door opened slowly to disclose Mrs. Fox silhouetted against the light in the hallway.
Dere's a lady heah to see you, honey, she announced.
A lady! He was on his feet at once. Show her in!
His heart was thumping furiously. Nevertheless, he summoned sufficient presence of mind to thrust his revolver under the pillow.
Another figure stood in the doorway.
Mary! he cried. Turning quickly to his table, he stroked the surface with his palm, searching a match. He lighted the gas-jet.
Now he faced her. How he longed to take her in his arms! Instead, his pride created a new belligerency.
Love was in his heart, but his lips formed these words: I suppose you came here to laugh at me.
She sank wearily on the bed. It was plain to be
