“And never marry him.”

“You think he would not follow?”

“I know he would not!”

There was a pause in the swift passage of words.  The girl’s breath was coming with difficulty.  The spell of this indomitable rancher was settling upon her.

“You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?” she asked slowly.

“I imagine nothing,” he answered quickly.  “I know.”

It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread.  “Florence,” she urged, “Florence, don’t listen to him any longer.  He must be intoxicated.  Come with me!” and she started to drag the girl away.

Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into the room beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob.

“Mrs. Baker,” he said slowly, “I thought I would not speak an unkind word to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended too often.”  His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head to toe, and back again until he met her eye to eye.  “You are the personification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makes one despise his kind.  For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice your own daughter—­your own flesh and blood.  Probably we shall never meet again; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me.  Do not speak to me now!” He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod of his head.  “Go,” he said, “and if you are a Christian, pray for a better heart—­for forgiveness!”

The woman hesitated; her lips moved, but she was dumb.  She wanted to refuse, but the irresistible power in those relentless blue eyes compelled her to obey.  Without a word she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Ben Blair came back.  The girl had not moved.

“Florence,” he said, “there are but twenty minutes left.  I ask you again to get ready.”

The girl’s color rose anew; her blood flowed tumultuously, until she could feel the beating of the pulses at her wrists.

“Ben Blair,” she challenged, “you are trying to prevent my marrying another man!  Is it not so?”

The rancher folded his arms again.

“I am preventing it,” he said.

Florence’s brown eyes blazed.  She clasped her hands together until the fingers were white.

“You admit it, then!” she cried, looking at her companion steadily, a world of scorn in her face.  “I never thought such a thing possible—­that you would let your jealousy get the better of you like this!” She paused, and hurled the taunt she knew would hurt him most.  “You are the last person on earth I would have selected to become a dog in the manger!”

Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun-tanned face went white.

“I looked for that,” he said simply.

Florence’s brown eyes widened in wonder—­and in something more—­something she did not understand.  Her heart was beating more wildly than before.  She felt her self-control slipping from her grasp, like a rope through her hands.