ound the cabin. Habit called for a
drink at this juncture and he saw nothing to drink. Anger awoke in
him; he grew maniacal, dangerous, and the late September shadows filled
the room.

"What woman do you mean?" he cried. "_In vino veritas_! You thought I
was sober. So I was. Sober enough before you, the preacher, to know
that I'm getting drunk rapidly, beastly drunk too, and being so, and
the gentleman I am, or meant to be, I don't thank you for interference
in my affairs. What woman are you thinking of? What woman passed my
window?"

"Mme. Poussette."

The guide's face stared, then broke into unmistakable and contemptuous
laughter.

"Didn't I tell you I was a gentleman? You've made a big mistake,
Ringfield. Even in my deterioration" (he had difficulty with this
word) "I remember who I am, and I don't go after married women.
Matrimony's one of the Church's sacraments, Ringfield, isn't it?
Perhaps not; I have forgotten. Anyway, Mme. Poussette is the wife of
my best friend, my best friend I tell you, and whoever cares for her
faded hair and finicking ways it isn't I. Sweeter pastures once were
mine. Have I named the lady of my choice or have I not? The gay
Pauline, the witty Pauline, the handsome Pauline! Ah! You admire her
yourself. You wrote her a letter. I gave it to her and we read it
together and laughed at it. 'Yours in Christ.' Ha-ha! We laughed at
it, Ringfield."

Even in his foolish insults he paused, for an awful expression appeared
for a moment on the other's face. In that moment Ringfield realized
what Miss Clairville had become to him. No one can bear to hear his
love traduced, and he believed that in his cups this villain, Crabbe,
was lying. They faced each other and Ringfield was not the cooler nor
the saner of the two.

"Pauline! Miss Clairville! What can she be to you? Hanger on of
womanly footsteps," burst from him, scarcely knowing what words formed
in his brain and emptied themselves upon the darkening air of the
cabin. "Stealthy and gloating admirer of her beauty, even the despised
companion and disloyal friend of her brother--all these you may be, but
surely nothing more to her."

"What I am to her I know well enough and can tell you easily enough.
She's done with me, hates and fears me, won't have anything to do with
me, and yet she belongs to me and I'm not likely to forget it. And I
belong to her. That's another reason why I wouldn't go after Mme.
Poussette