"Probably the woman he's been working for so hard has moved into the neighborhood," said George. Mrs. Stuvic declared that you never could tell what a man was working for. No man was worth trusting. She knew; she had tried them. Milford was no better than the rest of them. Why didn't he explain himself? Why didn't he stand out where every one could see him? She had defended him. She was getting tired of it. He had not rewarded her with his confidence. He came a stranger and had been a stranger ever since. One of these days he might set fire to the house and run away. "You shall not talk about him so," the girl declared. "No one shall abuse him." "Good for you," Mrs. Stuvic cried. "I've been fightin' his battles all along and I'm glad to get some help. Why, she looks like a cat, don't she? And it's what I like to see, I tell you. But it's usually the way; a man works for one woman and is took up for and defended by another." "He is not working for any woman, madam," said Gunhild. "No woman has any claim on him." Mrs. Blakemore shook her head. "With that dark, handsome face it would be difficult long to escape the claim of a woman." "Come off," said George. "I don't see anything so killing about him." "Men never see killing features in man," his wife replied. "They are left for softer eyes to discover." "Oh," he rejoined, looking worriedly at her. "The 'peach,'" she whispered. "Am I to hear that again?" He scratched upon an envelope and handed to her the words: "I give in. Let us call it even and quits."