Something primitive stirred in her—­a flare of feminine ferocity.  She felt hot to the touch, an active volcano ready for eruption.  If only she could get a chance to strike back in a way that would hurt, to wound him as deeply as he had her!

Pat to her desire came the opportunity.  Clay’s card was brought in to her by Jenkins.

“Tell Mr. Lindsay I’ll see him in a few minutes,” she told the man.

The few minutes stretched to a long quarter of an hour before she descended.  To the outward eye at least Miss Whitford looked a woman of the world, sheathed in a plate armor of conventionality.  As soon as his eyes fell on her Clay knew that this pale, slim girl in the close-fitting gown was a stranger to him.  Her eyes, star-bright and burning like live coals, warned him that the friend whose youth had run out so eagerly to meet his was hidden deep in her to-day.

“I reckon I owe you and Mr. Whitford an apology,” he said.  “No need to tell you how I happened to leave last night.  I expect you know.”

“I know why you left—­yes.”

“I’d like to explain it to you so you’ll understand.”

“Why take the trouble?  I think I understand.”  She spoke in an even, schooled voice that set him at a distance.

“Still, I want you to know how I feel.”

“Is that important?  I see what you do.  That is enough.  Your friend Mr. Green has carefully brought me the details I didn’t know.”

Clay flushed.  Her clear voice carried an edge of scorn.  “You mustn’t judge by appearances.  I know you wouldn’t be unfair.  I had to take her home and look after her.”

“I don’t quite see why—­unless, of course, you wanted to,” the girl answered, tapping the arm of her chair with impatient finger-tips, eyes on the clock.  “But of course it isn’t necessary I should see.”

Her cavalier treatment of him did not affect the gentle imperturbability of the Westerner.

“Because I’m a white man, because she’s a little girl who came from my country and can’t hold her own here, because she was sick and chilled and starving.  Do you see now?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter.  I’m not the keeper of your conscience, Mr. Lindsay,” she countered, with hard lightness.

“You’re judging me just the same.”

Her eyes attacked him.  “Am I?”

“Yes.”  The level gaze of the man met hers calmly.  “What have I done that you don’t like?”

She lost some of her debonair insolence that expressed itself in indifference.

“I’d ask that if I were you,” she cried scornfully.  “Can you tell me that this—­friend of yours—­is a good girl?”

“I think so.  She’s been up against it.  Whatever she may have done she’s been forced to do.”

“Excuses,” she murmured.

“If you’d ever known what it was to be starving—­”

Her smoldering anger broke into a flame.  “Good of you to compare me with her!  That’s the last straw!”