t?"

"Oh, nothing. I suppose he ought to be here to-day. Are you going to
see him if he looks you up?"

"No, no," she replied quickly; "I don't want to see him. You know that,
don't you--that I don't want to see him? What makes you ask these
questions?"

Brockton shrugged his shoulders.

"Just thought you might meet him, that's all. Don't get sore about it."

"I'm not."

She still held John's telegram crumpled in one hand. Brockton put down
his paper, and regarded her curiously. She saw the expression on his
face, and, reading its meaning, averted her head in order not to meet
his eye.

"What are you looking at me that way for?" she demanded hotly.

"I wasn't conscious that I was looking at you in any particular way.
Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I guess I'm nervous, too."

"I dare say you are."

"Yes, I am."

Brockton rose slowly from his chair. Crossing over to where she sat, he
stood with folded arms, looking her squarely in the face. There was a
hard look in his eyes, a determined expression around his mouth. He was
in one of his obstinate, ungovernable tempers, and Laura knew at once
by his manner that a critical moment was at hand. He began ominously:

"You know I don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this
time, but I've got to talk to you for a moment."

She rose quickly, and, going to the other side of the room, pretended
to be busy. Nervously, she said:

"Why don't you do it some other time? I don't want to be talked to just
now."

He followed her, and, in the same, hard, determined tone, said firmly:

"But I've got to do it, just the same."

Trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation,
Laura shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat on the sofa.

"Well, what is it?" she said.

He looked at her in silence for a moment, as if not quite sure how to
begin. Then, quietly, he said:

"You've always been on the square with me, Laura. That's why I've liked
you a lot better than the other women----"

She stirred restlessly on her seat, and began to polish her
finger-nails. Peevishly, she said:

"Are you going into all that again this morning. I thought we
understood each other."

"So did I," he replied bitterly; "but somehow, I think that we _don't_
quite understand each other."

She looked up, as if surprised.

"In what way?"

Looking steadily at her, he went on:

"That letter I dictated to you the day that you came back to me and
left for you to mail--