ad trained himself
to look at a beautiful woman as he might have looked at a beautiful flower,
confident that if he went beyond the mere admiration of it he would find
only burned-out ashes. But in her he had seen something that was more than
beauty, something that for a flashing moment had set stirring every
molecule in his being. He had felt the desire to rest his hand upon her
shining hair!

He turned off into a winding path that led into the thick poplars,
restraining an inclination to look back in the direction of the Otto camp.
He pulled out the pipe he had dropped into his shirt pocket, filled it with
fresh tobacco, and began smoking. As he smoked, his lips wore a quizzical
smile, for he was honest enough to give Joanne Gray credit for her triumph.
She had awakened a new kind of interest in him--only a passing interest, to
be sure--but a new kind for all that. The fact amused him. In a large way
he was a humourist--few guessing it, and he fully appreciated the humour of
the present situation--that he, John Aldous, touted the world over as a
woman-hater, wanted to peer out through the poplar foliage and see that
wonderful gold-brown head shining in the sun once more!

He wandered more slowly on his way, wondering with fresh interest what his
friends, the women, would say when they read his new book. His title for it
was "Mothers." It was to be a tremendous surprise.

Suddenly his face became serious. He faced the sound of a distant
phonograph. It was not the phonograph in Quade's place, but that of a rival
dealer in soft drinks at the end of the "street." For a moment Aldous
hesitated. Then he turned in the direction of the camp.

Quade was bolstered up on a stool, his back against the thin partition,
when John Aldous sauntered in. There was still a groggy look in his mottled
face. His thick bulk hung a bit limply. In his heavy-lidded eyes,
under-hung by watery pouches of sin and dissipation, there was a vengeful
and beastlike glare. He was surrounded by his friends. One of them was
taking a wet cloth from his head. There were a dozen in the canvas-walled
room, all with their backs to the door, their eyes upon their fallen and
dishonoured chief. For a moment John Aldous paused in the door. The cool
and insolent smile hovered about his lips again, and little crinkles had
gathered at the corners of his eyes.

"Did I hit you pretty hard, Bill?" he asked.

Every head was turned toward him. Bill Quade stared, his