Blair was as impassive as before. "I suggested it, and your father acquiesced." "And the third party, myself--" The girl's eyes were very bright. "I undertook the task of having you ready when the carriage comes." One of Florence's brown hands grasped the back of the chair before her. "I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty," she commented ironically. "Otherwise you might be disappointed." Ben said nothing. He did not even stir. Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. The inactivity tugged at the girl's nerves. "By the way," she asked, "where are we going to stay when we arrive, and for how long?" "You are to be my guests," answered Blair. "As to the length of time, nothing has been arranged." Florence made one more effort to consider the affair lightly. "You speak with a good deal of assurance," she commented. "Did it never occur to you that at this particular time I might decide not to go?" Ben returned her look. "No," he said. Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously tapping the floor. "In other words, you expect to take me against my will,--by physical force?" "No." Ben again spoke deliberately. "You will come of your own choice." "And leave Mr. Sidwell?" "Yes." "Without an explanation?" "None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will be enough." "And never--marry him?" "And never marry him." "You think he would not follow?" "I know he would not!" There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The girl's breath was coming with difficulty. The spell of this indomitable rancher was settling upon her. "You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?" she asked slowly. "I imagine nothing," he answered quickly. "I know." It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread. "Florence," she urged, "Florence, don't listen to him any longer. He must be intoxicated. Come with me!" and she started to drag the girl away. Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into the room beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob. "Mrs. Baker," he said slowly, "I thought I would not speak an unkind word to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended too often." His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head to toe, and back again until he met her eye to eye. "You are the personification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makes one despise his kind. For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice your own daughter--your own flesh and blood. Probably we shall never meet again; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to me now!" He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod of his head. "Go," he said, "and if you are a Christian, pray for a better heart--for forgiveness!"