She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. S. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. The evil in his eyes towards her was explosive. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. Then Capes’ footsteps approached. "I knew it. CHAPTER XVII. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe.
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