“To hear the kid run on,” responded O’Hara, overpowered by embarrassment, “you’d think I’d really done something, wouldn’t you?  Well, it wasn’t anything.  It was as easy as—­as eating.  Now, I was caught down in a mine once in Arizona—­”

“Tell me about it.  Mother, ask him to tell you about it,” entreated Archibald.  The boy was obviously consumed with curiosity and delight.  Gabriella had never seen him so enthusiastic, so swept away by emotion.  Already, she suspected, he had fallen a victim to the passion of hero worship, and O’Hara—­the man who spoke of “idees”—­was his hero!  “I shall have to be careful,” she thought.  “I shall have to be very careful or Archibald will come under his influence.”

“Well, I guess I must be going along,” remarked O’Hara, a little nervously, for he was evidently confused by her imperious manner.  “A fellow is expecting me to dinner over at the club.”

“But I want to hear about the mine.  Mother, make him tell us about the mine!” cried Archibald insistently.

“I’ll tell you another time, sonny.  We’ll get together some day when your mother don’t want you, and we’ll start off on a regular bat.  How would you like that?”

“When?” demanded the boy eagerly.  His fear of losing O’Hara showed in the fervour with which he spoke, in the frantic grasp with which he still clung to his hand.  It occurred to Gabriella suddenly that she ought to have thrown Archibald more in the companionship of men, that she had kept him too much with women, that ’she had smothered him in her love.  This was the result of her selfish devotion—­that he should turn from her to the first male creature that came into his life!

Her heart was sore, but she said merely:  “That is very kind of you, Mr. O’Hara, but I’m afraid I mustn’t let my boy go off on a regular bat without me.”

“Oh, yes, I may, mother.  Say I may,” interrupted Archibald with rebellious determination.

“Well, we’ll see about it when the time comes.”  She turned her head, meeting O’Hara’s gaze, and for an instant they looked unflinchingly into each other’s eyes.  In her look there was surprise, indignation, and a suspicion of fear—­why should he, a stranger, come between her and her son?—­and in his steady gaze there was surprise, also, but it was mingled, not with indignation and fear, but with careless and tolerant amusement.  She knew from his smile that he was perfectly indifferent to her resentment, that he was even momentarily entertained by it, and the knowledge enraged her.  The glance he gave her was as impersonal as the glance he gave Miss Polly or the rose-bush or the street with its casual stream of pedestrians.  It was the glance of a man who had lived deeply, and to whom living meant action and achievement rather than criticism or philosophy.  He would not judge her, she understood, simply because his mind was not in the habit of judging.  His interest in her was merely a part of his intense,