g day the house under the mesquite-tree assumed a more terrible
aspect in her eyes, and the house on the Quemado Road became more
familiar, dearer.

Unknown to Harboro, she sent money to her father. He had intimated that if
she could not come there were certain needs ... there was no work to be
obtained, seemingly.... And so the money which she might have used for her
own pleasure went to her father. She was not unscrupulous in this matter.
She did not deceive Harboro. She merely gave to her father the money which
Harboro gave her, and which she was expected to use without explaining how
it was spent.

With the passing of days she ceased to worry about those messages of her
father--she ceased to regard them as reminders that the tie between her
old life and the new was not entirely broken. And following the increased
assurances of her safety in Harboro's house and heart, she began to give
rein to some of the coquetries of her nature.

She became an innocent siren, studying ways of bewitchment, of endearment.
She became a bewildering revelation to him, amazing him, delighting him.
After he had begun to conclude that he knew her she became not one woman,
but a score of women: demure, elfin, pensive, childlike, sedate, aloof,
laughing--but always with her delight in him unconcealed: the mask she
wore always slipping from its place to reveal her eagerness to draw closer
to him, and always closer.

The evenings were beginning to be cool, and occasionally she enticed him
after nightfall into the room he had called her boudoir. She drew the
blinds and played the infinitely varied game of love with him. She asked
him to name some splendid lover, some famous courtier. Ingomar? Very well,
he should be Ingomar. What sort of lover was he?... And forthwith her
words, her gestures and touches became as chains of flowers to lead him to
do her bidding. Napoleon? She saluted him, and marched prettily before
him--and halted to claim her reward in kisses. He was Antony and Leander.

When she climbed on his knees with kisses for Leander he pretended to be
surprised. "More kisses?" he asked.

"But these are the first."

"And those other kisses?"

"They? Oh, they were for Antony."

"Ah, but if you have kissed Antony, Leander does not want your kisses."

Her face seemed to fade slightly, as if certain lights had been
extinguished. She withdrew a little from him and did not look at him.
"Why?" she asked presently. The gladness had g