Brief as had been the interruption, both Hilda and Rouletta had gathered much from it; their inference was borne out when Laure paused before them and in a voice subdued by the very force of her agitation exclaimed: 

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied!  I got it, and got it good.”  Her face was livid, her dark eyes were blazing wrathfully.  She outthrust a shaking hand and unclenched her fingers, displaying therein a crumpled sheet of pink paper, a printed official form, the telltale tint of which indicated its fateful character.  Both of her hearers were familiar with the so-called “pink tickets” of the Mounted Police; every one in the Northwest Territory, in fact, knew what they were—­deportation orders.  But in a tone hoarse and suppressed Laure read, “‘—­leave by the first safe conveyance!’ That’s what it says—­the first safe conveyance.  I suppose you’d like it better if it were a blue ticket and I had to leave in twenty-four hours.  You put it over, but I won’t forget.  I’ll get even with you.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” the Countess declared, quietly.  “I’m sorry you take it so hard, but—­it serves you right.”

“Who wouldn’t take it hard?  To be expelled, fired out like a thief, a—­” The girl’s voice broke; then she pulled herself together and uttered a quavering, artificial laugh.  She tossed her head again, with an obvious attempt at defiance.  “Oh, it takes more than a pink ticket to down me!  Anyhow, I’m sick of this place, sick of the people.  I hate them.”  With a vicious fling of her shoulders she swept on to a seat as far from them as possible and sank into it.

So the girl had confessed, Hilda reflected.  She was glad, for Pierce’s sake, that this miserable complication was in process of clearing up and that he would be finally and completely exonerated; she was glad, too, that her efforts in his behalf, her humiliation, had borne fruit.  He would never know how high he had made her pay, but that was all right.  She felt very gently toward him at this moment, and experienced a certain wistful desire that he might understand how unselfish had been her part.  It might make a difference; probably it would.  Things now were not as they had been.  She was a free woman.  This thought obtruded itself insistently into the midst of her meditations.  Yes, Courteau was gone; there was no reason now why she could not look any man honestly in the eye.  Of course, there was the same disparity in years between her and Pierce which she had recognized from the beginning, but, after all, was that necessarily fatal?  He had loved her genuinely enough at one time.  Hilda recalled that windy night on the shores of Linderman when the whimper of a rising storm came out of the darkness, when the tree-tops tossed their branches to the sky, and when her own soul had broken its fetters and defied restraint.  She thrilled at memory of those strong young arms about her, those hot lips pressing hers.  That was a moment to remember