while his breath came fast, almost chokingly, he had said: "Tell me, Dorothy, is it because you don't call me a man that you won't have me?"
The angry challenge in his voice hardened her.
"I don't know anything about how much of a man you are, Harry Wakefield," she had declared, with freezing indifference. "I only know you are not the man for me."
That had been practically the end of it. They had got through the day very creditably he believed, and the next morning they had departed on their several ways.
Wakefield had read law like mad for a week, and then he had started for Colorado. He had a favorite cousin out there whose husband was making a fortune in Lame Gulch stocks, and he thought that even prosaic fortune-hunting in a new world would be better than the gnawing chagrin that monopolized things in the old. Better be active than passive, on any terms. By the time he was well on his westward way, the sting of that refusal had yielded somewhat, and he began to take courage again. Perhaps when he had made a fortune! "It takes a man to do that," she had said. Well, he had four times the money to start with
