There he sat, hat off, the sun touching his short, thick hair which
waved a little at the temples--a boyish mould to head and shoulders, a
cleanly outlined check and chin, a thoroughbred ear set close--a good
face. What sort of a man, then, was a woman to feel at ease with? What
eye, what mouth, what manner, what bearing was a woman to trust?

"Is that the kind of man you are, Mr. Siward?" she said impulsively.

"It appears that I was; I don't know what I am--or may be."

"The pity of it!" she said, still swayed by impulse. "Why did you
do--didn't you know--realize what you were doing--bringing discredit on
your own club?"

"I was in no condition to know, Miss Landis."

The crude brutality of the expression might merely have hurt or
disgusted her had she been less intelligent. Nor, as it was, did she
fully understand why he chose to use it--unless that he meant it in self-
punishment.

"It's rather shameful!" she said hotly.

"Yes," he assented; "it's a bad beginning."

"A--beginning! Do you mean to go on?"

He did not reply; his head was partly turned from her. She sat silent
for a while. The dog had returned to lie at Siward's feet, its brown
eyes tirelessly watching the man it had chosen for its friend; and the