him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was
the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless--a
good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The
grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden
death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against
other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a
man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his
own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on
his arm. He had that chance once.

How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched
between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He
had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at
Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within
her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there
then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile
lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes,
too--but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of
her eyes as cold--as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or
twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he
thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or
twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung
open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to
remember those moments.

He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,--if
Peter had not come,--he might have been admitted farther into that
house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even
now--if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her--he might have a
fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world
outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight--the best man to win.
In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake,
it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He
was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let
it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show
himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name;
let him press his claims.

He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that.
Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied
Chic--he envied even poor mad