If
not, he had lived alone until this time, and he could continue to live
alone. Meantime, was Philip the barrier that would keep him from her? He
hoped not. He did not believe that she loved Philip. If she did, he
would be a good loser and wish her joy. His heart ached at the thought.
But, after all, one doesn't die over such things, and he would recover.

"I'm going to get the supper," said Claire somewhat abruptly. She rose
and set to work.

Here the thoughts of the two men flowed into an identical channel. It
was certainly good to sit and listen to her. That sound would be very
agreeable, indeed, at the end of a day, in one's own home. As for her
husband, he was out of the question. If Claire went back to him, she
might find him married or in love again, unwilling to receive her after
her long months with two men in the wilderness, suspicious of such a
thing being possible without more intimacies than he would care to
overlook. No, her husband did not matter. She would be justified and
safe in remarrying. Of course, not safe if she returned to America, but
that she would not do.

At this point their thoughts diverged. Philip was seeing Claire as the
continued inmate of his cabin. Lawrence was painting a delightful mental
picture of Claire as the ever-present fairy of his studio in some South
American town, or perhaps in Paris. He preferred France; it was a land
of more brilliance, more freedom, and certainly much more appreciation
of the things in which they were interested. Besides, his work would
carry more prestige in the world if it came from Europe.

He thanked the memory of old Roger Burton, of Cripple Creek, and he
rejoiced that he would be able to give Claire the home to which she was
entitled. He smiled as his thoughts went back to the mines and the dirty
little newsboy an old man had befriended. Burton's quarter to Red had
kept Lawrence, the boy, from becoming a coward, and Burton's slender
provision for the college graduate would now insure happiness for
Lawrence the man. Many times before he had laughed scornfully at the
untouched interest from the miner's bonds. He could make his own living.
But now there would be Claire. The old man would have been glad to see
his protege happy in the love of such a woman.

Meanwhile Claire was doing her work automatically. In her mind there was
pleasure at the thought that Lawrence was listening to her movements.
But she was filled with a dead weight that seemed