this--ah--fortunate individual upon whom you have
bestowed your affections; but you'll never lose mine," he burst out
wildly. "When you get done butting your head against the wall that
will mysteriously rise in your way, I'll be waiting for you. That's
how I love. I've never failed in anything I ever undertook, and I
don't care how I fight, fair or foul, so that I win."

"This isn't the fifteenth century," Hazel let her indignation flare,
"and I'm not at all afraid of any of the things you mention. Even if
you could possibly bring these things about, it would only make me
despise you, which I'm in a fair way to do now. Even if I weren't
engaged, I'd never think of marrying a man old enough to be my
father--a man whose years haven't given him a sense of either dignity
or decency. Wealth and social position don't modify gray hairs and
advancing age. Your threats are an insult. This isn't the stone age.
Even if it were," she concluded cuttingly, "you'd stand a poor chance
of winning a woman against a man like--well--" She shrugged her
shoulders, but she was thinking of Jack Barrow's broad shoulders, and
the easy way he went up a flight of stairs, three steps at a time.
"Well, any _young_ man."

With that thrust, Miss Hazel Weir turned to the rack where hung her hat
and coat. She was thoroughly angry, and her employment in that office
ended then and there so far as she was concerned.

Bush caught her by the shoulders before she took a second step.

"Gray hairs and advancing age!" he said. "So I strike you as
approaching senility, do I? I'll show you whether I'm the worn-out
specimen you seem to think I am. Do you think I'll give you up just
because I've made you angry? Why, I love you the more for it; it only
makes me the more determined to win you."

"You can't. I dislike you more every second. Take your hands off me,
please. Be a gentleman--if you can."

For answer he caught her up close to him, and there was no sign of
decadent force in the grip of his arms. He kissed her; and Hazel, in
blind rage, freed one arm, and struck at him man fashion, her hand
doubled into a small fist. By the grace of chance, the blow landed on
his nose. There was force enough behind it to draw blood. He stood
back and fumbled for his handkerchief. Something that sounded like an
oath escaped him.

Hazel stared, aghast, astounded. She was not at all sorry; she was
perhaps a trifle ashamed. It seemed unwomanly to s