fore which she bowed the knee in sincere belief would have
been simply to excite his laughter at her innocence and his
contempt for her folly.

"I feel that I've been paid," said she. "I did it for the
house--because I owed it to them."

"Only for the house?" said he with insinuating tenderness. He
took and pressed the fingers extended with the money in them.

"Only for the house," she repeated, a hard note in her voice.
And her fingers slipped away, leaving the money in his hand.
"At least, I suppose it must have been for the house," she
added, reflectively, talking to herself aloud. "Why did I do
it? I don't know. I don't know. They say one always has a
reason for what one does. But I often can't find any reason
for things I do--that, for instance. I simply did it because
it seemed to me not to matter much what _I_ did with myself,
and they wanted the order so badly." Then she happened to
become conscious of his presence and to see a look of
uneasiness, self-complacence, as if he were thinking that he
quite understood this puzzle. She disconcerted him with what
vain men call a cruel snub. "But whatever the reason, it
certainly couldn't have been you," said she.

"Now, look here, Lorna," protested Gideon, the beginnings of
anger in his tone. "That's not the way to talk if you want to
get on."

She eyed him with an expression which would have raised a
suspicion that he was repulsive in a man less self-confident,
less indifferent to what the human beings he used for pleasure
or profit thought of him.

"To say nothing of what I can do for you, there's the matter of
future orders. I order twice a year--in big lots always."

"I've quit down there."

"Oh! Somebody else has given you something good--eh? _That's_
why you're cocky."

"No."

"Then why've you quit?"

"I wish you could tell me. I don't understand. But--I've done it."

Gideon puzzled with this a moment, decided that it was beyond
him and unimportant, anyhow. He blew out a cloud of smoke,
stretched his legs and took up the main subject. "I was about
to say, I've got a place for you. I'd like to take you to
Chicago, but there's a Mrs. G.--as dear, sweet, good a soul as
ever lived--just what a man wants at home with the children and
to make things respectable. I wouldn't grieve her for worlds.
But I can't live without a little fun--and Mrs. G. is a bit
slow for me. . . . Still, it's no use talking about having
you out there