inviting off to
the right. "Listen, Mrs. Macomber," he began, striving to be
respectful. "What's wrong?" In the face of the threatening debacle he
could not calmly let matters drift. He felt himself rushing into
action.

Mrs. Macomber considered and then apparently made up her mind. She
opened the door and stepped out upon the vine-covered porch. For a
moment she stood facing him as if taking in her ground. There was
something deep and lurking and resentful in her narrow eyes.

"Well, I'll tell you," she began. "You've been taking up a mighty lot
of Myrtle's time here, lately."

He sinkingly realized the truth of this statement as he felt the
fixity of her gaze. He was silent. The front door opened over to his
left, but he was too absorbed to notice. There was a sound of someone
stirring in the vestibule.

Mrs. Macomber did not like his silence. She had decided on conflict.
"A man's got no right to take up a girl's time unless he means right
by her. Just because a girl's good lookin' 's no sign she's a
play-thing for any Tom, Dick, or Harry comes along."

Joe was stunned by the baldness of the statement.

"But, Mrs. Macomber," he managed to stammer, "I didn't know that's the
way Myrtle--Miss Macomber felt about it. I'm awfully sorry----"

"Keeps other men away," she interrupted him ruthlessly, determined to
have her say. "Spoils everything for her. She's just a young girl----"

"There, there, Ma," broke in a voice. Mr. Macomber joined the group, a
sheepish, kindly look upon his face, and raising a restraining hand.
He came and took Joe by the shoulder. There was something familiar in
his round, stolid face. "Don't take on so. Gonna get a cigar. Wouldn't
you like one?" he added casually to Joe, at the same time propelling
him to the steps.

Joe felt he was being manipulated. He turned again in a desperate
effort to regain some of the lost ground and his tone was very
respectful, quite abject.

"Mrs. Macomber, please accept my humble apologies. Perhaps I should
have spoken to you." He struggled. A final shred of self-respect
prevented him from laying bare the throbbings of his heart, or perhaps
it was a tiny, rising suspicion of doubt. There were signs of dross in
his vision of pure gold. "I hope," he concluded, "that you will give
me a chance to square myself."

The old woman glared at him, blocking the doorway, like a faithful
dragon at the castle gates where sleeps the queen of beauty.

"Sure you will,