Warrington looked at her in absolute amazement.

“Well, of all the nerve!  Why the deuce didn’t John punch his head?” savagely.

“Mr. McQuade is not a gentleman; John is,” simply.  “But Mr. McQuade hasn’t forgotten; not he.  He pays no attention to any of us; but that is no sign that he does not think a good deal.  However, we do not worry.  There is no possible chance for him to retaliate; at least John declares there isn’t.  But sometimes I grow afraid when I think it all over.  To his mind I can see that he considers himself badly affronted; and from what I know of his history, he never lets an affront pass without striking back in some manner.”

“Don’t you worry your head about McQuade.  What do you think?  He is so anxious to get me out of the political arena that he has sent a man down to New York to look into my past.  Isn’t that droll?”

Patty stooped again to the fishing-tackle.

“Such men as McQuade can invent.  I should be very careful, if I were you.  Your own conscience may prove you guiltless of scandal, but there are certain people who would rather believe bad than good—­scandal than truth; and these are always in the majority.  Don’t laugh, but watch.  That’s my advice to you, Mr. Meddler.”  She smiled brightly at him as she threaded the line through the guides of the rod.

“I may not have lived as cleanly as I might have,” he said soberly.  “I have been knocked about so much.  There were times when I grew tired of fighting.  But I have never done anything that will not stand daylight.  There was a time, Patty, when I came near making a fool of myself.”  He sat down, his legs swinging over the water.  “I drank more than was good for me.  He stared into the brown water and watched the minnows as they darted hither and thither.  “I was alone; things went wrong, and I was cowardly enough to fall into the habit.  But it was only periodically.  You remember that letter I showed you?”

“Yes.”  Patty’s voice was low.

“I believe I have read it a thousand times.  It has caused me a great many regrets.  I should like, some day, to meet the writer and disillusion her.  One thing she may be sure of:  I have never belittled the talent God has given me.  I have striven for the ideal; I have even fought for it.  That part of my life holds no stain.”

“But the habit?” hesitant.

“It is gone, where all fool-habits go, when a man has will power to rid himself of them.  Pride has something to do with it; and I have my share of pride.  I shall never go back.”

His head was turned away, but she could see the muscles in the jaws harden.

“You will never go back, I am sure, Richard.”

That she had at last pronounced his given name did not stir him; in fact, it passed over his head and hearing.  Like a dragon-brood, he saw in fancy his past follies springing up about him.  Not yet could he tell this clean-minded, gentle-bred girl that he loved her.  He must prove himself still further before he might utter what so thoroughly filled his heart and mind.