t
wonderfully potent? Or was it purely physical,--the soft reddish-brown
of her hair; her frank gray eyes, very like his own; the marvelous,
smooth clearness and coloring of her skin; her voice, that was given to
soft cadences? He did not know. No man ever quite knows what positive
qualities in a woman can make his heart leap. MacRae was no wiser than
most. But he was not prone to cherish illusions, to deceive himself. He
had imagination. That gave him a key to many things which escape a
sluggish mind.

"Well," he said to himself at last, with a fatalistic humor, "if it
comes that way, it comes. If I am to be the goat, I shall be, and that's
all there is to it."

Under his breath he cursed Horace Gower deeply and fervently, and he was
not conscious of anything incongruous in that. And then he lay very
thoughtful and a little sad, his eyes on the smooth curve of Betty's
cheek swept by long brown lashes, the corner of a red mouth made for
kissing. His fingers were warm in hers. He smiled sardonically at a
vagrant wish that they might remain there always.

Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. MacRae wondered if the
gods thus planned his destruction?

A tremulous sigh warned him. He shut his eyes, feigned sleep. He felt
rather than saw Betty sit up with a start, release his hand. Then very
gently she moved that arm back under the blanket, reached across him and
patted the covers close about his body, stood looking down at him.

And MacRae stirred, opened his eyes.

"What time is it?" he asked.

She looked at a wrist watch. "Four o'clock." She shivered.

"You've been here all this time without a fire. You're chilled through.
Why didn't you go home? You should go now."

"I have been sitting here dozing," she said. "I wasn't aware of the cold
until now. But there is wood and kindling in the kitchen, and I am going
to make a fire. Aren't you hungry?"

"Starving," he said. "But there is nothing to eat in the house. It has
been empty for months."

"There is tea," she said. "I saw some on a shelf. I'll make a cup of
that. It will be something warm, refreshing."

MacRae listened to her at the kitchen stove. There was the clink of iron
lids, the smell of wood smoke, the pleasant crackle of the fire.
Presently she came in with two steaming cups.

"I have a faint recollection of talking wild and large a while ago,"
MacRae remarked. Indeed, it seemed hazy to him now. "Did I say anything
nasty?"

"Yes," sh