“Because,” he said roughly, “we can’t.  You take my word for it.”  After a pause he went on in his former decisive tone.  “I’ll be back in two or three days.  I’ll fetch the parson.”

Sheila sat up straight.

His eyes held hers.  “Yes, ma’am.  The parson.  I’m going to marry you, Sheila.”

She repeated this like a lesson.  “You are going to marry me....”

“Yes, ma’am.  You’ll have three days to think it over.  If you don’t want to marry me when the parson comes, why, you can just go back to Rusty with him.”  He laughed a little, came over to her, put a hand on each arm of her chair, and bent down.  She shrank back before him.  His eyes had the glitter of a hawk’s, and his red and beautiful lips were soft and eager and—­again—­a little cruel.

“No,” he said, “I won’t kiss you till I come back—­not even for good-bye.  Then you’ll know how I feel about you.  You’ll know that I believe that you’re a good girl and, Sheila”—­here he seemed to melt and falter before her:  he slipped down with one of his graceful Latin movements and hid his forehead on her knees—­“Sheila, my darling—­that I know you are fit—­oh, so much more than fit—­to be the mother of my children ...”

In half an hour, during which they were both profoundly silent, he came to her again.  He was ready for his journey.  She was sitting far back in her chair, her slim legs stretched out.  She raised inscrutable eyes wide to his.

“Good-bye,” he said softly.  “It’s hard to leave you.  Good-bye.”

She said good-bye even more softly with no change in her look.  And he went out, looking at her over his shoulder till the last second.  She heard the voice of his skis, hissing across the hard crust of the snow.  She sat there stiff and still till the great, wordless silence settled down again.  Then she started up from her chair, ran across to the window, and saw that he was indeed gone.  She came storming back and threw herself down upon the hide.  She cried like a deserted child.

“Oh, Cosme, I’m afraid to be alone!  I’m afraid!  Why did I let you go?  Come back!  Oh, please come back!”

* * * * *

It was late that night when Hilliard reached Rusty, traveling with all his young strength across the easy, polished surface of the world.  He was dog-tired.  He went first to the saloon.  Then to the post-office.  To his astonishment he found a letter.  It was postmarked New York and he recognized the small, cramped hand of the family lawyer.  He took the letter up to his bedroom in the Lander Hotel and sat on the bed, turning the square envelope about in his hands.  At last, he opened it.

“MY DEAR COSME [the lawyer had written ... he had known Hilliard as a child], It is my strong hope that this letter will reach you promptly and safely at the address you sent me.  Your grandfather’s death, on the fifteenth instant, leaves you, as you are no doubt aware, heir to his fortune, reckoned at about thirty millions.  If you will wire on receipt of this and follow wire in person as soon as convenient, it will greatly facilitate arrangements.  It is extremely important that you should come at once.  Every day makes things more complicated ... in the management of the estate.  I remain, with congratulations,